


Seven years late

by winter_angst



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Aphasia, Bakery, Christmas, Disabled Character, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Lawyers, M/M, Pining, mcuchristmasexchange2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:16:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 36,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28246800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winter_angst/pseuds/winter_angst
Summary: Brock returns to his hometown after his father passes. He's faced with everything he left behind, including his childhood crush. Things don't go at all as planned but somehow, it all works out.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 8
Kudos: 16
Collections: MCU Christmas Exchange





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kalika999 (kalika_999)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalika_999/gifts).



> Merry Christmas Kali! I hope you like it. 
> 
> not beta'd so all mistakes are my own

When a case closed, all Brock wanted to do was have a drink in his penthouse apartment and unwind. He tried not to let the fact that he knew his client was guilty and back on the streets bother him as he hailed a cab and scrolled through countless emails from the firm. Now twenty-five he had moved on from making a name for himself to making himself partner now that George had finally, finally stepped down. 

The retirement party had been everything Brock moved to Manhattan for — an open bar at a one named establishment that was so unnecessarily indulgent he could cry; lobster and freshly made sushi by Michilan Star chefs with the awful gluten and vegan options as well. George Anderson had his newest wife (number four, Brock was almost certain) on his arm wearing a designer dress and massive diamond earrings that would have been tacky had they not looked so ridiculously expensive. 

Brock had grown up poor and he was determined to drown out those memories with shots of Springbank 1919 and forget about the days when his hands were calloused and his body ached from physical labor. Perhaps his humble beginnings made his rise to the top all the more impressive, but Brock was never one to boast openly — he let those around him do it while he remained outwardly humble. 

There was an email from his assistant congratulating him on the win and filling him in on the talk she’d overheard at the espresso machine. Sharon was a busy body with a nose far too big to make it in modeling like she had hoped but she was loyal to Brock (or smart enough to know that she would be rewarded once he reached partner level). Brock felt a bit victorious to hear that Alexander himself had stopped by his office to congratulate him in person. 

His apartment was modern chic according to the decorator; what that meant Brock wasn’t certain but every few months she came back and made it look completely different. It was refreshing in a way, especially considering the way that the house he grew up in was stalled in time. The occasional added photo on the wall was the only real change. Here, Brock didn’t have the worry. Not a single photograph adorned the walls but the decorator filled the emptiness with canvases of colored fabric and pieces of art Brock couldn’t possibly understand. 

Brock went through the kitchen, sparkling clean thanks to the housekeeper he never saw, and grabbed an apple as he headed into the bedroom. The king bed was far too big for one and cushy and beautiful. Brock stripped down and stepped into his bathroom. Expensive products were laid on shelves in the shower cube, plenty big enough for two or three as Brock learned after a particularly wild New Years party. 

The freedom of being gay in New York was another world within itself, vastly different from the sleepy town that turned their nose up in disgust at the mere idea. For a while the hook ups were everything Brock could have wanted but as time went on the thrill of finally being himself petered out and his focus was turned from chasing dick to getting the next big case.

It was different from everything he had grown up knowing and that was what he liked best about it.


	2. Chapter 1

Brock didn’t like to be interrupted when he was with his trainer. It was two hours, three times a week when Sharon was given a strict no contact rule. Brock locked his work phone in his locker and Sharon was the only one who had his personal cell number. 

He was doing reps when it rang and went to voicemail not once but three times. “Looks like someone’s looking to talk to you Rumlow,” Wilson commented, glancing at the phone. 

The man led the bar back into place and gave Brock’s bicep a tap. “Take the call man, cool down.”

Brock uttered a growl of annoyance but accepted the towel from Sam, wiping sweat away from his eyes and thumb so he could unlock his phone and see who was so intent on reaching him. His annoyance only peaked when saw it was Sharon. He called, fully prepared to ream her out for cutting into the precious little time from himself he had carved out but she cut him off with a genuine sounding apology. 

“I’m sorry but your father passed.”

The next few weeks were just a haze of surreal arrangements. Flowers came to his office offering condolences, Alexander personally insisted he take time to grieve and take care of the Rumlow estate which involved returning home for a week or two to sort through the home and liquidating his assets. Flying this time of the year would have been a nightmare with a slew of layovers. Finding a direct flight from JFK to Bangor International was disgustingly overpriced and there weren’t any direct flights. So he decided he’d drive. 

He rented a four by four Acura, packed up what he expected he’d need for a week and said goodbye to civilization as he started towards the sleepy town of Swallows Peak, a place that he thought he’d said goodbye to. He was strangely conflicted about going back home. He had thought that he’d broken free of small town life. He had grown to the thrive of the activity and beat of the city. There was also a strange numbness towards his father’s death that would eventually have to be unpacked. There was a bit of relief and still a twinge of sadness. Each emotion warred against each other, overcoming each other in waves as Brock tried to distract himself by fiddling with the radio. The truth of the matter was that he wasn’t looking forward to dealing with it. 

Christmas in itself was never a big deal to him, not since left Swallows Peak where Christmas was made out to be far too big of a deal. It just led to disappointment because the spirit never made its way into his trailer. No cookies left out, no Santa to come, no tree so no presents. He remembered how much he hated his friends, at the anger that simmered inside him when the big tree went up in the town center and everyone came to help decorate and string the lights, toss the tinsel and string popcorn. Brock was always stand offish, as a child he hoped with all his heart that Santa would visit him that year. And as he got older he hardened his heart towards it. So even now when the tree went up in Town Square Brock could only sneer at it. But the holiday parties made up for it. Liquor had a way of numbing any childhood pains -- maybe it was why his father drank. 

Christmas was a ploy to make money. Good tidings were bullshit, a feeble attempt to make Christmas out to be about something more than spending money. As an adult Brock saw through it. It was laughably obvious and he couldn’t believe he was so blind as a child. Santa didn’t make remote control cars -- a factory in China did. Kids were dumb. Now Brock was smart and he saw through the lies he grew up believing. Still, if there was a holiday that Swallows Peak threw itself into it was Christmas. It was a perfect storm of torture for Brock -- dealing with his father’s affaris while avoiding caroling children and seasons greetings. He intended to keep his head down and avoid any old faces to his best ability. It may have been easier than he anticipated -- he hadn’t seen them in just over a decade. Surely they would have forgotten his face. 

Any hope Brock held that maybe Swallows Peak had changed since he left it was dashed when he passed the town sign which was lit up with string lights and a wreath hung on top. 

“Just fucking great,” he muttered as he passed the eye sore. 

He still knew the town like the back of his hand and as he drove through town, bright with lights and decorated extravagantly with blow up characters and various other decorations, he was hit by a strange calm. Maybe it was the familiarity, however cringeworthy it was. Still, it was familiar and with everything feeling so awkward and pressed it was nice to know that something was going to be exactly as expected. He went through, down to the backroads. He turned at the rusty mailbox and up a bumpy, unplowed driveway. The trailer was snow capped and a bit more worn that it had when Brock left for NYCU. He pulled to stop behind a rust bucket of a truck and cut the engine. He sat in his car feeling strangely empty. There was no way to tell how long he sat there, night had already fallen when he arrived, but it didn’t feel long enough as heaved in a deep breath. The heated air had dissipated and brisky cold air from outside had seeped inside. His breath froze in the air and he shuddered a bit in his peacoat. 

He got out, his Sorel Joans sinking into snow that had built up in the four days since the coroners removed his father’s body. He wondered if Fury still plowed. The one eyed black man was the singular plower of all driveways too long to shovel. But he very well could have retired. Or, maybe, dead like his father. They were similar in age but his father’s death had been accelerated by his heavy drinking and damaged liver. He grabbed his luggage, patting his pocket to assure the key that Brock had couriered him was there. He trudged through snow that came to the bottom of his shin and climbed the rickety steps to the faded brown painted door. The trailer was dark and it felt unnatural. Usually the sound of a TV would seep through it’s thin walls. Brock found himself looking through the dark window where his father’s arm chair was. Usually he’d sit there, back to him, watching old western movies and UFC fights. But it was too dark to see inside. 

Brock and his father had a rocky relationship. He’d been abusive until Brock got big enough to fight back and the two settled into a frozen stalemate of shared resentment. But regardless of how much he hated the man there was still that part inside of him that clung to the good memories. Of fishing off the dock and the time they went Wild Arcadia. None of that mattered anymore of course. He was dead and Brock was here to take care of things before he returned back to his life. His real life, not his shadowy past. He already missed his penthouse and the city lights. It was almost eerie being in the middle of nowhere in the dark. Once upon a time he would have used the cover of night to slip out when his father nodded off to go drink beers Barton slipped from his dad behind the abandoned movie theater. 

He unlocked the door and the air was cold and musty. He turned on the lights first before he fussed with the furnace which, thank God, worked. The trailer was in disarray and it wasn’t all from the paramedics moving things so the coroner could get to the body. The armchair was still open. It was fitting that he’d died in it. Brock left it and turned to face the rest of the mess. There were empty cans and bottles on every surface and a sizable pile of them beside the chair. Brock set down his things and sighed heavily. He’d clean up the place in the morning because of now he was physically and emotionally taxed. He walked down a narrow hallway and paused in front of the door of his old room. He had no way of knowing the state of it. Maybe his old man had ransacked it when he left. There was no way of knowing until he opened it so he took a breath and twisted the cold knob. The door fell open with the same creak it had when he was a kid. He groped for the light and switched it on. 

The room was small, a bit overstuffed with a twin bed, a desk and a bureau. The walls still had the same posters on them. Tom Petty, Aerosmith, The 49ers, and a shameless poster of John Travolta from Grease that he was shocked his father never questioned. His father hadn’t touched the room and that had a nameless feeling creeping up his throat. Everything was covered with a generous layer of dust and he wiped it away as he set down his things. He stripped the decade-old sheets from the bed and dug out a blanket he laid over it from the chest he had kept spares in. They were dusty but better than nothing. With his bed somewhat made he sat down on it, eyes drifting shut as he was briefly teleported back to his childhood where he sat in that very spot. He’d be waiting for his dad to go to bed so he could sneak out. Sneaking out was a constant; he and his friends always hellbent on being together in the safety of night when they could roll joints and pretend to be older than they were. Clint, Steve, Bucky, Natasha, Jack… Jack. He hadn’t thought about Jack in years. His forbidden crush had been filed away with the rest of Swallows Peak as he adjusted to life in the big city and upping his social standings. 

He wondered if they had stayed. Jack had wanted to go to culinary school so he imagined he was long gone. Clint was content to go wherever Natasha went and she had gone to the local university but he didn’t know if they’d found their way to a new part of the state. Bucky and Steve both had enlisted so he imagined they two were still stationed somewhere around the world. Brock didn’t expect to run into any of them; they’d all expressed eagerness in leaving the sleepy, boring town. He hoped they’d achieved it the same way he had -- although he was back. Not permanently, he reminded himself. He would be back to New York City in a flash. He just had to go through the motions here first. Then he’d be back in the lap of luxury with his powerful, though often guilty, clients. 

As the air warmed up, hot air blowing through the vents, Brock’s exhaustion fell over him and he turned off the light. It was dark. He was used to the city lights filtering through his curtains. He got up and turned on the hall light and left the bedroom door cracked. It wasn’t the same but it worked.


	3. Chapter 2

The morning light came through the windows at an unholy hour and he buried his face into the dusty pillow waking himself up further as he sneezed violently. With exhaustion blurring his eyes he pulled himself upward. He could see the particles dancing in the stream of sunlight. He got to his feet and reacquainted himself with a home though he never thought he’d step foot back in. It’s hallways were just a bit more narrow than he remembered but the bathroom was just as small as he remembered. It could do with a lot of cleaning but Brock tried not to think about that when there so much more pressing matters to attend to. 

He washed his face and looked at himself in the mirror. Brock was lacking his usual finesse. There were dark bags under his eyes but he hadn’t thought to bring his Tula with him. It wasn’t like he had anyone to impress in Swallows Peak either. No high stake clients were going to catch sight of him and see him an overworked attorney rather than one sauve and in control. No one wanted an attorney who looked spread too thin. He straightened up and went back to his childhood bedroom to get changed. He slipped into a black turtleneck sweatshirt over a white undershirt. Brock stepped into gray slacks and rolled on a pair of socks. He had forgotten about how cold it got in Maine.

He gave the trailer a sweeping look, nose wrinkling up in distaste. He didn’t want to be here, he didn’t want to be reminded of what he once was. That he once resided in such squalor and poverty. He was above that now, as he reminded himself. He was here simply to wrap up loose ends so he could escape back to real life. He just had to hang in there for a little bit longer. A week couldn’t undo all he’d learned from life in the big city. He wasn’t going to revert back to his previous gangly self. No, he was Brock Rumlow. He wasn’t going to be defeated by his past. 

Brock stood in the living room a minute, staring at the armchair, then he walked out. He locked the door on instinct alone. There wasn’t much worth stealing in it and he would be getting rid of whatever was inside of it at the first chance he got. But habit died hard so he left it locked and got back into the car. He wondered if the diner was still open. Swallows Peak had a trend of family owned businesses which was all quaint and sweet until the fact that children were locked into a position from birth. Bruce was always too smart to run a small town diner so he was hoping to see it empty. He was left both disappointed and thrilled to find it open. There was always the chance it had been sold but there was also the chance that he was going to see a friend he hadn’t thought he’d meet again. He cut the engine, the rental standing out starkly among the rundown, well loved cars. These were people who didn’t care about appearances -- but Brock wasn’t going to let himself get caught up in that kind of thinking. Being a attorney was about more than just selling skills, it was selling Brock as well. His image, how he conducted himself. He could let that slip now that he was in the middle of nowhere. 

He got out of the car, hitting the lock button until it honked and inhaled the cold mid-December air before he pulled open the door. He was met by warm air and a smell that was painfully familiar. He was pulled back to walking through the door with Clint cracking a joke and waving to Bruce who worked the counter. Blinking through the memory he stepped in and let the door close behind him, chiming the bell once more. 

“One second,” a redhead woman said. 

Brock cocked his head a bit and watched her pouring coffee for an old man who laid his hand on her arm. In New York that would have been a fine file of sexual harassment. But he wasn’t here looking for cases and the woman didn’t seem upset about it. In fact she put her hand on his shoulder and approached Brock. The green eyes were familiar and couldn’t help but question, “Natasha?” 

Maybe-Natasha froze looking confused. “Do I know you?” 

“It’s you.” Brock said, a smile creeping across his face. He hadn’t made a plan for reacting to old faces so all he could do was stare. “It’s really you?” 

“Do I know you?” she asked again, looking a bit uncomfortable. 

“Brock. Brock Rumlow.” 

Her eyes popped wide and her jaw fell slack as she looked him up and down. “Oh Brock! Of course it’s you, you just… Wow, you look great.” 

She set the pitcher of coffee aside and pulled him into a very unexpected hug. “I’m sorry about your father.” 

Oh right. That was why he had hoped he wouldn’t run into anyone he knew. “Er, thanks.” 

She pulled back, absolutely beaming now. It was a far cry from the sassy teenager he’d grown up with. “I wondered if you’d come back or not.” 

“I didn’t really have a choice.” 

“Please sit. Let me buy you breakfast.” 

“You don’t need to do that.” 

“I insist.” Brock saw a flash of the Natasha he’d been in a school with and backed down the way he had as a kid. “Get whatever you want. I’ll tell Clint you’re here.” 

Brock looked over the options for something low in fat and high in protein. The diner was decked out, lights, garland and tinsel. A small Christmas tree was crowded into the corner decorated just as elaborately as the rest of the place. It had been updated a bit, new photos hung on the wall but it was the same tacky wallpaper, the same booth with new upholstery and the counter was a blast from the past. They’d line up there on Wednesday afternoons after school while Bruce got ready to help his parents. They always let him enjoy a milkshake with the rest of the crew before they all separated to go about their responsibilities. 

“Did you decide?” 

Brock came back to the present with a start and looked up at Natasha who had a pen poised but her eyes sharp and calculating. “The eggs and bacon will be fine. Can I get it with egg whites only please?” 

Natasha looked confused. “What’s wrong with the yolk?” 

“It’s -- ” Brock almost launched into the explanation but he caught himself and said, “Nothing. Normal eggs are fine.” 

“I’ll get that right in. Stay put, we have a lot of catching up to do.” 

And that was what Brock had hoped to avoid. Catching up wasn’t in the itinerary. The maximum time he had to spend here was a week. But he intended to leave as soon as possible. He had to get the medical certificate from the county, arrange the funeral and get in touch with his father’s benefit agencies. Things that could be completed, should he stay on task, in three days. Getting the copies of the death certificate would take the most time but maybe he could pull some strings and -- 

“Brock Rumlow. How the hell are you?” 

Brock looked up at a tall, broad shouldered blond man that he realized with a start was the adult version of Clint Barton. Clint was one of those people who no one imagined a grown up version of them and even if he had it would have held a candle to what he actually looked at. His smile was the same, mischievous and giddy. 

“Clint.” He stood up and offered a hand and instead got pulled into a hug. 

His New York instincts almost had him pulling away but he kept his wits about him and hesitantly put his arms around his old friend. Barton finally pulled back and grinned at him. “Damn, look at you. You’re like a bodybuilder or something now. Makin’ me look bad in front of my girl.” 

“Your girl?” Brock said, surprised. He knew Clint had harbored a crush on Natasha as a kid but he never thought much would come from it. 

Natasha held up her hand and Brock had to squint to see the diamond. “Wow,” he said, truly shocked. “Good for you two.” 

“I thought we were all supposed to keep in touch,” Clint said, looking a bit offended. “You went to The Big Apple and forgot all about us.” 

“I just…” Brock didn’t have a response that was fitting. ‘I wanted to better myself and that involved cutting you out’ or ‘I just didn’t want to be associated with lower class people’ reflected poorly on him and well, were a bit harsh. “It’s been incredibly busy with the firm. I’m on retainer so -- ”

“So you graduated law school then?” Clint cut in with a grin. “That’s awesome man! Congratulations.” 

“Thanks. Sorry I didn’t keep in touch better.” 

“Meh, water under the bridge now that you’re here -- I’m sorry, by the way, about your father.” 

“Thank you.” Brock fiddled with the menu. He never imagined he’d be uncomfortable in the presence of his childhood best friends but here he was, a stranger. “So when did you two get married?” 

“Last year.” 

Brock wanted to beat his face into the table. He didn’t owe them anything yet he felt like, should he be invited, he couldn’t refuse. “That’s great.” Brock said and carefully changed the topic to, “So you two own the place now?” 

“Yup, bought it from Mr. Banner because Bruce went to medical school.” 

“Oh yeah?” At least he wasn’t the only one who escaped Swallows Peak. “Where’s he practicing?” 

“Here. He took over for Dr. Coulson.” 

Or maybe he was the only one. “How’s Steve and, uh, James.” 

It felt inappropriate to use his childhood nickname when they’d been apart for so long. Clint cocked his head in confusion. “You mean Bucky?” 

“Yeah,” if they were going to act casually despite the time apart, Brock could too. Or at least he could give it a try. 

“Good. They’re home until February when they get deployed again. You should see them! They’d be happy to hear from you.” 

Brock didn’t want to and that made him feel guilty. He was out of small-town practice. “Yeah, yeah I’ll try to find the time.” 

The excitement in Clint’s eyes faded to sympathy and Brock was once more mentally kicking himself. He didn’t want sympathy, not when he was grieving the way he should have been. “I’m really sorry about your dad.” 

“Thanks.” 

Someone called for Clint and he perked up. “Oh yeah, I’m supposed to be cooking. Eggs and bacon right?” 

“Please.” Brock was relieved for the refuge from socializing. 

“You got it. And it’s on us.” 

“I already told him,” Natasha cut in. 

“Awesome. I'll get your food out ASAP.” 

“Thanks Clint.” Brock said. 

“No thanks necessary. Anything for a friend.” 

A friend. He still considered them friends despite his absence. That was the small town effect wasn’t it. Blind acceptance never expired. Once a friend, always a friend. Brock didn’t know what to make of it yet but he was aware that this was just one of many run-ins so he needed to make peace with the fact his old friends would be showing interest in him. It was the polar opposite of everything Brock had grown to know and that was intimidating. 

Natasha startled him, slipping into the booth across from him. “Uh, hi.” Brock said with a blink. 

“What’s the matter?” she asked, or well, rather demanded. “A few years away and you act like we’re strangers.” 

“Well -- ”

“Well?” she cut in. “Who was it who had your back all those years?” 

Brock didn’t like to be grilled. It felt like he was on trial but he couldn’t object now could he? Counsel lay your foundation. “It’s been a while Natasha. It’s… We’ve all been living out lives for years now.” 

As jurors you are not to be swayed by sympathy. 

“So that’s it then?” Natasha asked hurt. “You don’t care?” 

“I never said that. I just… We don’t know each other the way we used to.” 

“So get to know us.” 

The way she said it made it all so simple. “I’ll try,” he promised. 

“I’m going to hold you to that, Rumlow.” Natasha got to her feet. “Coffee?” 

“You wouldn’t happen to have nitro would you?” She looked unimpressed. “Two creams one sugar.” 

“We have Coffee-Mate.” 

“That’ll do, I suppose.” 

“You’re not in the big city anymore Brock. Enjoy yourself.” 

His idea of entertainment had changed since he left Swallows Peak. Back road drinking had turned to cocktails in the lobby of Wyndham, getting ahead of his cases to secure his place in the firm. It had been years since he enjoyed a meal that cost less than fifty dollars and even longer that he’d had a drink that wasn’t finely aged and made by talented, beautiful bartenders. The bar in Swallows Peak was small, a narrow counter and cramped tables under dim lighting. Brock had come unprepared. He should have done his research, laid out his argument. But real life wasn’t the courtroom and he was at the disadvantage. Getting to know people he shared nothing with but the past was a tall order. An order he wasn’t certain he could fulfill. 

Natasha dropped off his coffee and Brock smiled, the same smile he gave all his servers, small and impersonal. If Natasha noticed she was kind enough not to say anything. He took a sip and carefully schooled his features. Instant coffee. Disgusting. He set it aside and pulled out his phone. He sent an email to Alexander thanking him for his condolences and requested a check in with Sharon to see if any clients had requested him. 

“Wow! Cool phone, man.” a teen said, pausing. “That’s the new iPhone right?” 

Children didn’t talk to strangers in New York. “Uh, yeah, it is.” 

“I asked for one for Christmas. I dunno if my dad’s gonna spring for it though. It’s pretty expensive right?” 

Brock had a hard time gauging what constituted expensive these days. “It’s not cheap,” he settled. 

The teenager said goodbye and left Brock alone. Solitude was going to be difficult to achieve. Folks were friendly and wanted to strike conversations with anyone and everyone. It was a sharp contrast to what he was used to. There was a lot to adjust to and he wanted to be done with it as soon as possible. 

“Coffee’s not great,” Natasha said and Brock jumped. “Clint loves it through and everyone’s pretty much lowered their standards for his sake. You want good coffee you should stop by the bakery. I bet Jack would be happy to see you.”

“Jack?” he repeated. “I thought he went to NECI?” 

“He did. Then he came back and opened a bakery. Some people came back after school.” 

That was a dig that Brock felt he didn’t deserve but he held his tongue. As odd it was for someone he hardly knew to be so passive aggressive it was fitting and a bit nostalgic because that was the Natasha he remembered from school. She had a sharp tongue and a response for everything. She made her expectations clear and spared no feelings when someone failed to perform. 

“A bakery huh,” Brock picked up the coffee and almost sipped it before remembering what it was and setting it aside. He wondered what he looked like now. He’d harbored a crush on the man through school but hadn’t dared act on it. “I’ll check it out.” 

“You should.” A bell rang and Natasha looked over her shoulder. “Oh, that’s your breakfast.” 

He set his standards low reminding himself that this wasn’t going to be a bottomless brunch at Buvette. The plate was large, a big waffle draped off the side to make room for three sunny-side up eggs, four triangles of toast gleaming with butter and a pile of bacon. It was a coronary on a plate and damn if it didn’t smell good. Wilson was going to kill him when he got home and admitted how far he’d gone off his careful diet. But what could he really do? He’d hit the grocery store later and stock up on what he could find. Natasha returned with a boat of syrup and Brock was still staring at it. 

“Forgot what a human portion of food looks like?” she said with a critical eye. 

“Is this a human size portion?” he asked with a small smile. “Guess suppose I should get started.” 

“Mmhm,” she put her hands on her hips. “Enjoy.” 

It wasn’t exactly genuine but Brock couldn’t fault her after their rocky meeting. “Thanks.” 

Brock made it three fourths through the plate. It was good in that down-home way. He was used to fine ingredients but even the basics were handmade and Clint was clearly handy in the kitchen. He would have thought he’d open a pizzeria instead of buying the diner from the Banners but it wasn’t a waste. 

“To-go box?” 

“I’ve got too much running around to do.” he palmed out his wallet for a tip and offered a fifty. 

“This isn’t New York, Rumlow. Keep your money.” 

“I always tip my servers.” 

“And this ‘server’ is refusing.” 

Brock sighed heavily and stowed his wallet away. Natasha picked up the plate turning to go before she paused and said, “It’s really good to see Brock. I hope we get to see more of you. We all missed you.” 

She walked away leaving Brock in a state of surprise. They had? 

His next trip was to the coroner in Raleigh County. He picked up his father’s certificate of death from the vitals record office and requested four copies to cover all his bases. He got in contract with the local mortician to have his body cremated. Brock wasn’t going to bother with a funeral. There was no one who’d want to attend, Brock included, and the sooner he returned home the sooner he could shake free of his feelings of guilt. It wasn’t fair he was being guilted -- he had bettered himself. He traded in Goodwill clothing for hand tailored suits and silk ties. Swallows Peak was part of his past and it was supposed to stay that way: in the past. 

He found himself idling his car. He needed to clean up the trailer and figure out if he was going to bother with selling or simply have it torn down and put the plot of land up for auction. But he didn’t want to deal with it yet. So he parked in front of a yarn store with angels in the window. Brock stared at the soft white lights and wondered what Barney’s Christmas window would look like this year and if he’d be back in time to see it. When he was a kid the biggest decoration was the church’s nativity display. A strange ache formed in his chest as he remembered standing among his friends looking at the tableau of Jesus in the manger, the three wise men and the angel Gabriel. It had been years ago but he remembered bathing in the light from the scene and the way they looked shimmering in Jack’s green eyes. 

Jack. 

He wasn’t hungry in the slightest after such a filling breakfast. He didn’t want to go into the bakery and leave empty handed so he put off the visit until tomorrow. He returned to the trailer and dug a shovel out of the shed stuffed with odds and ends. He worked off breakfast shoveling the driveway, steps and porch. He was breaking out in a sweat, cooled by the cold air. He paused to catch his breath, frozen puffs, and stared at the trailer with its dirty siding. There was no real indication of whether or not it was worth cleaning up. He could alway put it up for an auction as it was and let renovators go nuts. Something about that felt wrong and the fact he couldn’t figure out what it was that was bothering him was driving him crazy. 

He rested the shovel on the wall and went inside. He tackled the kitchen first, stuffing food in various stages of decay into trash bags. He didn’t bother with the dirty dishes, dropping them into the trash bag without a second look. Cleaning the kitchen took him a lot longer than it should have. It’d been a long time since he cleaned something on his own and it showed with his awkward slowness. After the kitchen was clean he turned his attention to the bathroom which was a new kind of disgusting. There was a strange rush of satisfaction after cleaning up. He rested on the sunken couch and stared at the arm chair. When he closed his eyes he could see him there, scruffy unshaven face, a green bottle dangling from his fingers in a drunken stupor. There was no telling how long he stared at it but when he came back to his senses shadows were starting to creep up the walls as daylight faded. He swore and checked the time. It was too late to catch the market -- another thing to hate about small towns. In New York there was always something open. Here everything was closed up by six o’clock. 

He rummaged through the cupboard for a can of soap and stumbled across Italian Wedding soup. He tried to ignore the sodium levels and poured it into a bowl. When he took the bowl out of the microwave he sat on the sunken couch and turned on the TV. Infomercials played, far too loud and he quickly corrected the volume and scrolled through channels until he settled on a sports recap. He didn’t care for sports save for placing bids in the firm pool for the Super Bowl. It was a lonely, miserable meal and Brock hadn’t expected to feel so empty. Flickering lights lit up the darkening room and Brock set aside the bowl, leaning back to stare at the empty chair. He remembered all the times he wished the man would keel over and die and now he had. There was no triumph, no relief, just...emptiness. It was akin to indifference but there was something more to it. An emotion that had no name. 

He retired to his room and spent a few hours just staring at the ceiling. He’d left the TV playing to swallow up some of the silence. It helped just enough to get him to sleep.


	4. Chapter 3

Brock woke up exhausted and tried to wake up in the shower. Feeling a bit more awake he grabbed his keys. He’d stop by the diner, grab breakfast, get groceries and spend his day reaching out to his father’s benefits. It was nice to have a solid plan, to feel a bit more organized. After he was done with his business he’d find the bakery that Natasha talked about and see what time had done to his childhood crush. The diner was a squat building, painted an offensive shade of blue that had been worn by the elements to an even worse hue. It had outlived Brock by decades. It was ugly but it was stable. Good bones, built when things were meticulous and craftsmanship was something builders were proud of. 

The bell dinged as he stepped in and Natasha looked up from pouring coffee and nodded at the booth he’d sat in yesterday. He had readied an apology, a cease fire from her scorn. His stay may not have been long but he didn’t want any unnecessary tension. Plus, if Natasha was as he remembered her to be (which, so far seemed accurate) she’d appreciate candor and accept a white flag. He wasn’t one to admit defeat but if there was anything he had learned from his profession it was the importance of having a strategy to appeal to the jurors. Except this time he was the one on trial and he needed to appease the judge and jury. 

He picked up the menu and looked for something low fat and found ‘seasonal fruit’ listed on the side. That and two eggs with wholegrain toast seemed the best he was going to get. “Glad to know I didn’t scare you away.” 

She rested her hands on her hips, green eyes sharp and calculating. “I’m sorry about yesterday. My behavior was impersonal. Things in the city are different and I’m still adjusting. I’m sure you can understand that.” She hummed but gave no other indication. Counselor lay foundation. You have exhausted that subject, move on. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you all. We should all get together, catch up.” 

“Are we worthy of your time Mr. Big Shot Lawyer? I Googled you, y’know. You got off a man who murdered four women.” 

“Allegedly,” Brock corrected immediately. “He was cleared of all charges.” 

“Is that who you are now? You let rapists, crooks and murderers walk free?” 

“I defend those who request my services.” Brock said tensely. He hadn’t expected to be called out in this way and it was ruffling him more than he expected it to. 

“Do you know what you want to order?” 

Yesterday she had been warm and today she was ice cold. Fitting. She would have made a hell of an attorney with her demeanor. She would command a courtroom like no other. “The fruit, two eggs and whole grain toast.” 

“We have white.” 

“Then white. Please.” 

She hummed and turned away. Guilt that Brock had avoided previously started to dig at him. Sometimes his clients were guilty. Usually it was menial things; money laundering, embezzlement, assault. But those with money gravitated to their firm and there was a good reason why. He took the cases of those who could pay, just like anyone else in his profession. So, no, Natasha couldn’t fairly judge. She didn’t understand. His plate was delivered without so much as a word and Brock heaved a sigh and shook his head. If she didn’t want to come around that was fine. He wasn’t here to make friends. He was here to pack up the last ties he had to this fucking town and then he would be back in civilization where his skills were appreciated rather than being judged negatively towards his success. 

He left a fifty on the table, mostly to bother Natasha, and saw himself out. He managed to make it through shopping without being noticed by a few familiar faces. He’d dropped the baby fat around his cheeks and he’d bulked up significantly. Brock knew that word of him being back in town had travelled. He got stares and hushed whispers between people as he passed who recognized him. He kept his head up. Once at the trailer he put away what’d he gotten and started to sort through the mound of mail he’d collected in his cleaning. He spent an hour organizing it. There was a past due notice of the electricity so Brock settled that first and then went about contacting his 401K. He wasn’t worried about the money. He had plenty of that and he certainly didn’t want it to be attached to his father in any way. Maybe he’d make a donation to AA in his father’s name. The irony wouldn’t be lost on him. 

He finished his phone calls in the late afternoon and then idled trying to decide if it was worth it to find Jack. There was no telling what he thought of him. If Natasha had Googled him there was nothing stopping the rest of the town from looking through his public cases. There wasn’t any shortage of them either. He’d been on an impressive streak before he was called home and now he was facing up to it in a tight knit community he really had no business being a part of. He told himself that they had no right, no reason to judge him for what he did but these weren’t the kind of people content on ignoring anything that didn’t directly involve them. Bleeding hearts and so on. He sat back in the chair and stared at the wall. Just through it was the living room and in that living room was the armchair. 

His father had thought that attorneys were weasels, maybe that was what drove him into the profession. The idea of saving people was romantic, knowing he could make a real difference in someone’s time of need was what drew him to law school in the beginning. Maybe his clients weren’t the kind of people he imagined himself defending but he was still helping them -- whether they deserved it or not. Scrubbing a hand over his face he pulled out his cellphone. Nearly all his contacts were work related, food delivery services and past flames he occasionally called upon should he need someone to keep his bed warm. Networking trumped friendships in his world and for the first time he felt isolated by it. 

Brock tried to convince himself that it didn’t matter what people thought of him. A padded bank account was worth more than what small towners thought of him. But they weren’t just small towners -- they had been his friends once. An itch formed under his skin the longer he churned the thoughts around his head. Overthinking led to mistakes. He got up and grabbed his keys. He’d find Jack. He didn’t have to talk to him, there was a good chance he wouldn’t recognize him, but was curious to see what time had done to him. It didn’t take too long to track down the bakery. Sweet On You was slotted between a mom and pop clothing store and woodworking studio. The windows were full of christmas decorations completely with fake snow and a grinning snowman. 

He loved Christmas at one point. It was Jack’s favorite time of year and he always spoiled Brock with gifts because he knew he didn’t get a Christmas at home. He spent most of his holidays at the Rollins household. He thought of it on occasion. During the firm’s holiday party at the Midtown Loft and Terrace he would think about how far he’d come from Santa Baby in the background while the Rollins family (and Jack’s plus one) played board games. He wasn’t sure if it was a step up or a step down. 

He sat in the car staring at the building for nearly ten minutes. Brock should have adjusted to being in the hot spot but this felt different. In a courtroom was one thing -- there were rules, standards put in place that had to be followed. Social interactions were not quite so rigid. Jack could do anything, say anything, and he couldn’t call an objection. On the other end, Brock couldn’t strike things he said from the record. He’d have to be careful. He was going in blind. He popped open the door and waited for a truck with a big tree strapped to it to pass before he jogged across the road. That was another thing he was missing. The gym had been his safe place and that was gone. It was all the more reason to make the trip as short as possible. 

Sweet On You had a cupcake as the ‘o’s and Brock snorted a bit to himself. Brock had a feeling it had been done ironically. As he got closer he caught whiffs of sugar. It was the kind of place that Brock avoided normally because his waistline didn’t need it. He’d always had a killer sweet tooth and that would one day be his downfall. Jack had one too. He remembered nights of eating Little Debbie's snack cakes and Reeses Cups while watching old movies in Jack’s bedroom at two am. A twinge in his chest caught him by surprise. He didn’t get much time to reminisce in his freetime so the sudden onslaught was overwhelming a bit. Drawing a deep breath he pushed the door open. The smell of frosting hit him like a brick wall and his mouth watered a bit. A young woman in red hair tied back in a high ponytail stood up from where she was stocking giant cupcakes in the display. 

“Hello!” she chirped. 

She certainly wasn’t Jack. “Hi,” he made a slow peruse around the store. The walls were covered in local art and he recognized Steve’s name on most of them. Brock was glad he was still painting, he’d had a real knack for it when they were kids. 

“Is there something you’re looking for?” 

Brock almost jumped. She had soundless come around the counter and was now at his side. “Uh, just looking.” 

“You’re not from around here.” She was wearing black leggings with gray woolen socks pulled up over the edge of a knock off Ugg styled brand. “Visiting family?” 

“Something like that. Is, uh, is Jack Rollins around?” 

“He’s in the back rolling out dough for the pain au chocolat. I’ll grab him.” 

He almost told her not to bother but he didn’t want to put it off any longer and torture himself further. “Thank you.” 

Brock adjusted his jacket and looked at the painting of a farm scene with a small throat clear. He hadn’t been this nervous in a long time. When it came to the courtroom he had his argument laid out and a good idea of what the opposing counsel would say. There was no way to prepare for this so he was going to just rip off the bandaid. “Hello?” 

Brock turned sharply and took in the sight of Jack for the first time in years. Tall and lean he was the grown up version of Jack Rollins alright. There was a scar on his face that hadn’t been there before. “Hi.” Brock managed. 

“Can I help you?” 

“Umm, yeah.” Brock made a quick move to the counter and caught sight of a beautiful raspberry ganache chocolate cake. “How much for the cake.” 

Jack looked puzzled and Brock didn’t blame him. Asking for him by name and then asking something generic that his employee could have easily answered was strange. “Seventeen dollars.” 

Handmade cakes in the city rarely cost less than forty dollars. Small town economics at it’s finest. A new idea struck him and he said, “Can you personalize it?” 

“Gladly.” He pulled it out. “Is white icing okay?” 

“That’s perfect.” It would stand out starkly against the chocolate. “Thank you.” 

He set it on the counter and vanished in the back to get the icing. The employee finished putting away the cupcakes and smiled warmly at him, as if they were long time friends and not strangers. “That’s my brother’s favorite flavor of Jack’s cakes. It’s so hard to choose -- they’re all so good.” 

Brock smiled, trying to mirror her friendliness. “It certainly looks good.” 

Jack came back with icing and a cake box. “Sorry for the wait. What would you like it to say?” 

“Sorry I’m an asshole.” 

Jack looked up, startled. His employee looked even more shocked. “Sorry I’m an asshole,” he echoed. “A-anything else?”

“Nope.” 

Jack picked up the frosting and held it over the cake. He held it there for a while, unmoving, and then his employee stepped forward taking it from his hand. “I’m sorry.” Jack said suddenly, color in his cheeks. 

The redhead wrote the message in looping letters while Jack stood on and watched. “I hope I didn’t offend you,” Brock said quickly. Great, hardly back in town and pissing off everyone. 

“No it’s not… It’s… ” he trailed off. 

“It’s okay,” the redhead said. “Here you go.” 

The cake was boxed up. Brock paid for with a twenty and stuffed the change into the donation jar for the local animal shelter. He hesitated, considering saying something but his nerves got to him and said a quick goodbye. The employee echoed it and Jack raised his hand in a goodbye wave before going into the back. Outside the cold air bit at him but the smell of sugar still clung to his skin. He put it on the back burner as he got back into his car. If he was going to survive this trip he needed to raise the white flag with Natasha. In the old days she was his best friend and confidant. He needed someone he could lean on and if there was anyone who could help him navigate in a world he left behind it was her. 

The diner was slow, the lunch rush already came and gone. A few old patrons sat drinking coffee and talking. Natasha was pouring a cup of coffee, back to the door and Brock walked to the bar and set down the box. “Be right with you,” she said without so much as a look. 

“No rush.” 

She turned then, surprised by then suspicious. “Oh you came back.” 

“I did. And I brought a cease fire.” 

“Oh really?” she looked at the cake and flipped it open. She stared at it and then a smile crept across her face. “Apology accepted.” 

Brock released a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “You’ll have to hide it from your boyfriend.” 

“Husband.” 

“Oh right. When was it?” 

“I sent you an invitation. You ordered us a new grill.” 

Brock’s stomach sank in disappointment in himself. “I’m sorry. My assistant -- I get a lot of invitations to things. She’s instructed to send something off the registry.” 

“I can’t complain. It was a fifteen hundred dollar grill. Clint was ecstatic. But he would’ve been happier to have you part of the wedding party.” 

“I’m sorry. I’ve missed a lot, huh.” 

“It’s been seven years Brock. That’s a pretty big chunk of time. Which, I suspect, is why you didn’t introduce yourself to Jack.” 

Brock had no idea how she knew these things but it had been that way since he was kid. “I think I offended him.” 

“Oh really?” 

“He had to pass off writing the message to his employee.” 

“Ah, Wanda. She’s so sweet isn’t she? Her brother works in the kitchen with Clint. They moved here a few years back.” She set the cake under the counter. “There’s a lot that’s happened since you’ve been gone Brock. You’ve got a lot of catching up to do.” 

“Wanna catch me up on what I missed with you over a shitty cup of coffee.” 

Natasha smiled. “I think I have enough time for that.” 

Brock learned that the wedding had taken place at the Coulson farm, reception held at the Town Hall. It had been a little thing, nothing like the few weddings Brock had attended in the city for networking opportunities. No million dollar dresses, no lavish decor with big name wedding planners. Just two people in love. Clint came out at one point to tell him about the golden retriever named Lucky they’d adopted. He said he should come around to see him and Natasha suggested dinner Sunday, the only day the diner was closed. He agreed to it and felt that maybe things with them were mending nicely. 

Hopefully reconnecting with the others would go as well.


	5. Chapter 4

The next two days went by quickly. At least, during the day they were. Nights were spent with the TV on mute, sitting on the couch and trying to come up with a name for the emotion for what he was feeling. He was a well educated man -- why was it so hard? His JD was useless, his degree pointless in this regard. He was good at outwardly analyzing people, looking for a way to make the person at the stand crack without risking an objection for badgering. This wasn’t supposed to be so difficult. He was supposed to come and go and wash his hands of the life of the lower class. He didn’t want to be reunited with his roots but he could feel them snaking down into the soil. It was making him feel obligated to stay, obligated to appease to people he hadn’t seen for years. 

He found the nicest bottle of wine he could find -- and it was swill if he was to be honest -- and showed up at the Barton family home. Clint’s brother, Barney had abandoned the North East and taken cover in the balmy state of Florida where he never had to suffer through another frozen winter. Brock was still adjusting to the sheer amount of snow -- there was rarely more than a dusting in the city. He knocked twice and a dog started to bark. What was the name? Lucy? Lassie? Something with a L. 

“Lucky, quiet,” Natasha said sternly and the dog obeyed. 

The door opened and he caught sight of Natasha wearing something different for the first time. There was no pouch slung over her hips. She was wearing an a-line black dress. She leaned in and kissed his cheek which should have made him withdraw but it felt familiar in a strange haunting way. “You look great.” 

“I figured I’d dress up a bit to make the transition easier on you,” she teased. “I couldn’t wrangle Clint into a tie.” 

“It’s bad enough you make me wear it to church!” Clint called from further in the house. 

It was quaint and cozy, just as Brock remembered it. The furniture had been updated and it was put together with the care of two adults with no children to mess things up -- except for Clint of course. They had good taste, the decor was cohesive with a sharp eye for detail. He offered the wine. “It’s the best I could find.” 

“Ah, the lawyer is also a wine expert.” 

“Attorney,” Brock corrected. “And I may have picked up a few things, thank you very much.” 

She smiled and gestured for him to follow. The dog pressed against his leg, undoubtedly getting fur on his Bonobos slacks. Brock stayed in good humor and leaned down to pat the dog that wiggling around it was wagging its tail so hard. The table was set and the blond in the kitchen turned to greet him with a hug. Old friends back together -- that certainly warranted hugs. 

“I still can’t believe you’re back,” Clint said before remembering why he was there and quickly corrected, “I’m really sorry about your loss.” 

“It’s okay.” Brock was around friends, it wouldn’t hurt to open up. It wasn’t like it would tarnish reputation in the real world. “I don’t even know how I feel about it.” 

“You two weren’t exactly close,” Natasah said, taking down three wine glasses. “He wasn’t very nice to you either.” 

“But he was still my father. He raised me. So why don’t I feel… I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel.” 

“Feel whatever feels normal.” Clint basted the steak in the pan. A sprig of rosemary and cloves of garlic basked in the melted butter. “My dad was a dick most of his life. Got better as he got older -- he figured out that I could send him to some state run nursing home.” 

“Do you miss him?” 

“Not really.” 

Brock wasn’t sure he missed his father. But maybe he did and that was why it felt so foreign. During his childhood he’d been certain he’d be happy when he keeled over and died but now it had happened, now he wasn’t a scorned abused kid, he felt a bit guilty. Wishing someone dead and them actually dying had a negative effect. 

“Enough sad stuff, we’re supposed to be catching up.” Natasha splashed wine into the cup and held it up. “To old friends.” 

“And terrible wine,” Brock added and she smiled. 

The dinner was delicious, though a bit heavy. Clint was well versed in home cooking and that involved a lot of comfort food. When the table was clear they polished off the bottle of wine and Natasha got him up to date on the others. Bucky’s platoon had seen some serious action before he came back and Natasha thought that it was affecting him more than he let on and that worried her. It almost felt inappropriate to be told such intimate details of someone’s private life but they were exactly ‘someone’. Brock expressed his sympathy and Natashsa shifted focus to Steve who had made it known this was his last tour of duty before he retired so he could focus on his art. 

“He’s really good,” Brock said with a head shake. “I saw them at the bakery.” 

“Speaking of the bakery, thanks for the cake.” Clint said with a grin. “I’d offer you some but I may have eaten the rest for breakfast.” 

“No problem.” 

“So, when are you going to tell Jack it’s you?” Natasha asked, swirling the contents of her glass. 

Brock’s face heated up a bit. “Soon. I just… I don’t know. How do I come back after six years and say ‘hey it’s me’.” 

“Seven.” 

“What?” 

“It’s been Seven years. Eight come August.” 

Brock sighed. “He wrote you, you know. We all did. But you never responded.” 

He had gotten letters in his first years of school and he’d responded as promptly as possible but as he got busier and fell into new crowds he had gotten lazy. He had forgotten they wrote him in the beginning. “I turned into a bit of an asshole.” 

“A bit?” 

“A lot of an asshole,” Brock corrected feeling terrible. “How am I supposed to face him after that? I practically said a big ‘fuck you’ to him.” 

“You’re awfully worried about what Jack thinks. Some things never go away huh?” Natasha wagged her eyebrows and Brock sputtered in objection at her airing a secret that was more important than ever to hide. “Oh relax, Clint knows. And he also knows that if he ever tells anyone he’ll be very sorry.” 

“Just between us boys -- and girl.” He drained his glass. “Want a beer?” 

“No, I have to drive.” 

Brock squeezed the bridge of his nose. He hadn’t thought about his feelings being public knowledge and he knew that Clint wasn’t as reliable as Natasha was. He’d often been the target of ‘but don’t tell anyone I told you’ growing up. All he could hope was that no one had actually told the man. That would make their eventual formal meeting all the more awkward. He’d have questions on why Brock hadn’t introduced him in the beginning and he was still trying to come up with a good answer. 

“Stop overthinking things. We’re not like your big city people. We care about one another.” Natashas set down her glass. “Don’t tell you forgot about that.” 

She had a point. Swallows Peak residents weren’t the kind to hold a grudge. They looked for the good in everyone and anyone. “If you looked me up, he would too.” 

“Not true. He clearly doesn’t know you’re in town yet.” 

“He doesn’t?” 

“I didn’t think it was my place to tell them. Let you talk to them at your own pace.” 

“Thanks Natasha.” 

“Don’t mention it. Seriously don’t. Jack would kill me if he knew that I didn’t tell him you were around.” 

“And why would that be?” Brock asked.

“Because there might be a chance that he may have shared similar feelings with you.” 

Brock gawked and Clint flopped down cracking open a Budweiser. “What’d I miss?” 

“Nothing.” Natasha indulged a coy smile with Brock. “I hate to kick you out but we have to get up early tomorrow.” 

“Of course,” he got to his feet. 

“Aww, but I just opened a beer,” Clint protested. 

“You can finish it while we do the dishes.” 

“I guess,” he grumbled. He came around the table and gave Brock a hug. “It’s great seeing you. Are we gonna see you tomorrow?” 

Brock had bought eggs to make his own breakfast but after tonight he felt comfortable enough to say, “For breakfast as least. Maybe lunch if my meeting with the mortician doesn’t run long.” 

There was softening of sympathy in Clint’s eyes and Brock ignored it. He didn’t want to ruin his best night since coming back to the town overthinking about his father’s death. Natasha saw him and he gave a parting pat to Lucky. Natasha kissed him goodbye and left the porch light on until he was pulling out. There was a strange feeling of contentment in him as he drove. It was nice to see them. He couldn’t convince himself any different. There was something relieving about a meal with friends instead of co-workers and associates. It had been a long time since he’d shared something so personal with other people. Even sex didn’t offer the same closeness that he’d just experienced. It was something to think about when returning to the trailer that he’d left unlocked because he was finally remembering that there wasn’t anyone looking to break in and rob the place. Those kinds of things didn’t happen in Swallows Peak. 

As Brock laid in his childhood bed he thought about Jack and the ways in which the two of them could reconnect. Going back to the bakery and opening up; pleading guilty for cutting ties so cruelly and requesting forgiveness. He wasn’t so sure he deserved such a deal but he had to give it a try. He closed his eyes and he could still Jack. Tall with the square shoulders, a jawline sharp enough to cut glass, his warm green eyes and that scar. He wondered where it came from. It was healed, a divot in his flesh from something that happened years earlier. It would be too soon to ask. Oh, he’d have to apologize for his crassness. In the old days the two of them swore together without a care in the world but things changed. 

There were only four days left until Christmas. He suspected he could finish the rest of his tasks and be on his way back to the city on Tuesday. That gave him a small window of time to make amends with Steve, Bucky and Jack. Brock had considered going to church but it had been a long time since he stepped in a holy building and trying to figure out where he stood on faith was something he didn’t have the time or energy to toil with. He woke up in the morning and took a long shower. The diner had turned from uncomfortable to a safe haven and it was a relief to walk it. He considered himself lucky he hadn’t run into Steve, Bucky or Jack there alone. Maybe fate was in his favor giving him ample time to do things at his own pace. 

Brock ordered what was quickly becoming his go to: fruit, two eggs and toast. Natasha hung out at his table, catching up on what else he’d missed around town. They were little things. A renovation of the Town Hall, the repainting of the church and how they’d finally fixed the bell in the tower. Brock wanted updates on Jack however and when he hedged it she shut him down. 

“You’ll have to talk to him yourself,” she replied pleasantly. “You know where he is.” 

Brock sighed heavily and polished off his breakfast while Natasha told him about chaos that had surrounded repaving the town square. The meeting with the moritican went far faster than he expected and at eleven he was in his car parked across the road from Sweet On You. He tapped his fingers nervously against the wheel. He was going to tell Jack. Introduce himself and subject himself to his judgement. Jack was well within his rights to do so of course. With one last look in the visor mirror he sucked in a deep breath and got out of the car. There wasn’t any traffic to allow a time buffer and he was both glad for and unhappy about. There was a woman with a little kid wearing a red knit hat standing at the display. There was no cake but there was a big gingerbread house. The employee, Wanda, was helping the woman so he loitered by the door where a wooden stand had artisan breads and a few loaves of Challah. 

“Can I help you?” 

He looked up, startled and found Jack looking at him. “Oh, umm…” He froze. Now those green eyes were on him he couldn’t bring himself to expose himself. “How much for the gingerbread house?” 

“Oh, it was supposed to be for decoration. I can give it to you for twenty dollars -- for supplies.” 

“I’ll take it.” 

This wasn’t going at all how planned and now he was walking out with a gingerbread house instead of a cake. Just perfect. He paid after the woman and her child had two cupcakes and Jack put the house into a cardboard house because it was too tall for the cake boxes. Jack rang him up this time, the employee, Wanda, having vanished into the back. There was a chance to say something, the shop empty and just the two of them face to face. He swallowed, mouth opening to say something when she popped back, a baking tray with two cupcakes on it in her hands. He passed over the bill, mumbled a thanks, and carried his shame, and the gingerbread house, back to his car. 

At least now he had a gift to offer to Steve and Bucky. Natasha had told him that they now lived in Steve’s mother’s house which was nestled just out of town, fringed with great evergreens and white birches. There were two vehicles in the drive. A blue truck and a black SUV. There was a man outside shoveling but he stopped, leaning against it when Brock pulled in. Anxiety knotted his insides together as he got out, holding the box close to his chest for comfort. 

“Are you lost?” It was Bucky by his dark hair. He was just as handsome as he had been when they parted ways. 

“Bucky?” he asked, just to verify. 

“That’s me. Do I know you?” 

“Uh, it’s Brock. Brock Rumlow.” 

There was a silence and they stood opposite each other. “Brock!” 

He dropped the shovel and rushed over with a grin. “Hey Buck.” 

“Hey yourself! It’s been a while. You’ve been, where, New York?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Must be something. Hey, Steve’s inside painting. He’d love to see you. If you’ve got time, I mean. I know with everything to with your dad -- ”

“I do.” Brock looked down and then held out the box, cutting him off before he offered condolences. “I brought you a gingerbread house.” 

Smiling Bucky took the box. “Thanks, man. C’mon in.” He led the way to the wrap around porch and opened the door for him. He was met by the smell of cinnamon and acrylic paints. “Steve! Look who’s here.” 

Steve appeared from a side room off the living room where they were standing. His growth spurt had clearly continued after Brock left because he was absolutely built with a body to rival his own. Brock could never achieve his sheer height. He looked confused until Bucky said, “It’s Brock.” 

His blue eyes widened and he hastened over and pulled him into a hug. His military hardened body was firm against his own. “It’s been… Oh, wow, I don’t know how long. I’m sorry to hear about your father.” 

“Thanks. Yeah, it’s been a while.” Brock admitted rubbing the back of his neck. “ Natasha said I should stop by.” 

“Of course you should! Can I make you a cup of coffee?”

“Sure.” 

Despite the two spending little time here -- according to Natasha at least -- the house had a warm lived in feel. There were a few things out of place and a couple dishes in the sink. Brock was ushered into a seat and Bucky unboxed the gingerbread house. 

“You got this from Jack, right?” Bucky shook his head. “I can’t believe he didn’t say anything at church.” 

Brock sucked on his cheek before he admitted, “I haven’t told Jack I’m back yet.” 

“You haven’t?” Bucky looked confused.

“I… I feel bad we fell out of contact.” 

“Can’t say we were worried but we figured you’d…moved on.” 

He had. But now that he was back it felt like a mistake. “That’s not a good excuse,” he said instead. “I just don’t know how to go about it. But I’m here to catch up with you guys. What have I missed?” 

They launched into a two hour conversation where they filled him in on everything he’d missed. There was some overlap with Natasha and Clint had told him -- the fixed bell, the repaving of the town square -- and details on where they’d been deployed. Steve said he couldn’t stand the humidity of Hawaii and Bucky hated the dry deserts in Afghanistan. Steve said he was finishing up his time in the service and Bucky said he wanted to get a few more under his belt. Steve was clearly bothered by it but they had only just gotten back together; he wasn’t going to go prodding into their personal lives. 

When they parted ways he got Bucky and Steve’s numbers so they could stay in contact. It was a genuine move; he would stay in touch. He hadn’t realized he missed them but now he was there, seeing their faces, reminiscing on the good ol’ days. He got into his car with the same feeling of satisfaction he had leaving Natasha’s. 

Three more days until Christmas. Three more days to connect with Jack.


	6. Chapter 5

Nights at the trailer started to feel less empty. He spent less time each evening staring at where his father once laid. He thought about Jack. Constructed arguments, ran through lines and tried to prepare for any counterpoints that could come. Jack was smart, there was no talking circles around him the way he could with witnesses and the jury. Most importantly this wasn’t the counsel on this case; he was the defendant and that was a position he had hoped he’d never find himself in. In fact he never thought he’d see Jack again. But here he was, preparing to grovel for forgiveness because the guilt was eating at him and unearthing regrets he didn’t know he had. 

He fell asleep going over his points and objections he could intervene should it become necessary. 

He spent two hours at the dinner, dragging over his breakfast and ignoring the scolding looks Natasha was giving him as he passed. “You’re going to have to go over there eventually,” she reminded him. He frowned in response. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see Jack -- he did -- he just wasn’t ready for a possible fall out. He’d been closer to Jack than to the others and that made what Brock had done all the more unforgivable. 

“You know my lunch crowd is going to come and I’ll need your table.” 

“What if I want to get lunch?” 

“Then I’ll have to exercise my right to refuse service. Go see him already. God, it’s like we’re back in high school again. No, strike that. You weren’t nearly so...angsty.” 

“I’m not angsty.” 

“You’re acting angsty.” 

Brock huffed a breath of defeat and got up tossing down money. “Fine. If it goes poorly I’m blaming you.” 

“Noted. Go on now, get it over with.” 

He dragged his feet to his car and felt too long toying with the radio. Once he pulled into the same parking spot he’d claimed every other time he sat there was while watching people come and go. It was clear that Sweet On You saw a lot of foot traffic. It was hard to resist the smell that it radiated and how warm it looked inside. It was a good refuge from the cold and a good place to get sugar fix sated. Brock couldn’t say he saw a lot of bakeries, unless they were counting Starbucks during the rare occurrence that he had to get his own coffee. He had a small army of interns to do that for him. Brock never felt bad about that; he’d gone through the process of scutwork, coffee and a dry cleaning trips to know it built character and appreciation for climbing the rungs of success in a cut throat profession. 

Once he ran out of reasons to stay in the car he got out and waited idly by the street as a station wagon came slowly up the road, a little old lady behind the wheel. He crossed the street and followed a young couple into the bakery. They went to the display immediately, gloves hands clasped together. Brock couldn’t remember the last time he held anyone’s hand. Save for when he was fucking one of his regular partners he had very little intimate contact with anyone. That wasn’t something that would normally bother him -- he wasn’t even certain it was bothering him now -- but he couldn’t help but follow that line of thought when it came to the subject of his childhood crush. 

He held the door for a man with reddened cheeks and slipped in behind him. He looked over Steve’s paintings while they helped the customers. When the last person left, Jack turned his attention to him. “I hope you’re not looking to buy this gingerbread house. I haven’t gotten a chance to…” he paused and looked a bit confused. 

“Put it together,” Wanda said, popping her head in. 

Jack smiled and nodded. “Oh, no, I’m just…” Brock drew in a deep breath. “It’s been a while since we’ve seen each other.” 

“I saw you yesterday.” 

“No, I mean… Well, yes, you saw me yesterday but… It’s me, Brock.” 

Jack squinted at him, clearly trying to find a familiarity under seven years of aging and when he saw it he drew back eyes comically wide. “Brock?” he whispered like he wasn’t sure Brock was just pulling his chain. 

“Hi.” 

“Brock,” he said again. “I…” 

“I know, I know. I should have kept in touch better. Things back home are...crazy to say the least. But that isn’t an excuse. Natasha knocked some sense back into me. I know you probably heard about my dad so I’ve been busy getting his affairs in order but…” Brock shook his head. “No, I’m making excuses again. What I’m trying to say is...hi, seven years late.” 

Jack was still staring at him. He opened his mouth and froze like that for an extended moment before his mouth snapped shut and he looked down. Brock had expected forced politeness at most but it seemed that Jack was angry enough to be at a loss for words. 

“I’m sorry,” Brock said.

Wanda came out from the back and Brock wished she had the tact to know when a conversation was personal. She rested her hand on Jack’s arm and he turned away and stalked into the back. Brock hadn’t planned to have Jack literally turn his back to him but here he was. At least he’d tried. Natasha couldn’t fault him on that. “I’m sorry,” Wanda said as Brock started to turn away. “Since the accident he can’t… It’s called aphasia -- he gave me permission to tell customers that. Sometimes he can’t express speech.” 

“What accident?” Brock asked. He had no right to ask something so personal but he didn’t catch himself on time. 

“A car accident four years ago. He was lucky to get out with his life,” she frowned, eyes ghosting with the past. “That’s why he had trouble writing out your message the other day.” 

Brock had missed more than seven years. He’d missed Jack narrowly escaping death. Brock was the one who didn’t know what to say as he stood there. Wanda watched him expectantly. “I… Is he going to be okay?” 

“Yeah. I think being caught off guard exasperated it a bit but once he’s calmed down some I’m sure he’ll want to catch up.” She perked up as she said it. “I’ve heard about you though. He told me that you used to try to help him make cookies for class parties and once you forgot to add sugar.” 

Brock was shocked that Jack even remembered such a small moment from all those years ago. The moment she mentioned it though he was thrown back in time to standing the Rollins kitchen, a carton of egg and sacks of flour and sugar spread out the counter space while Jack rolled out dough. Brock remembered leaning his hip against the counter and watching the way he handled the rolling pin, at how his forearms flexed with each movement. How graceful he was, like it was as a performance. It was then that Brock had realized the power the man held over him and how far he’d fallen. 

How had he turned his back on that and kept it out of mind for seven years? Standing stiffly in the middle of a bakery wasn’t a good reaction but he was locked in place trying to wrap his head around the interaction he was in the middle of. Wanda looked hesitant herself, his lack of a response added a layer of awkwardness to the shock. With great effort he forced a smile. 

“I’ll come back another time.” 

“Okay.” Wanda painted on a smile. “Happy Holidays.” 

“Happy Holidays,” he echoed as he saw himself out. He stood numbly as a pick up rumbled past him and sat in his car feeling oddly numb. 

He sat behind the wheel staring through the glass to see if Jack would come out. He didn’t and Wanda vanished into the back leaving Brock staring at a seemingly empty store. There weren't words for how he felt. The regret, the confusion, the guilt all rolled into something heavy and weighing on not on his heart but his entire body. It was like he was being crushed by his previous decisions. By leaving, by waiting so long to speak to Jack, by not knowing what to say when something serious and personal had been divulged to him. He didn’t know what it was that Wanda said Jack had but he had his phone handy and some quick Googling didn’t relieve any of his emotions. If anything he felt even worse. 

Brain damage? That was a level of severity that Brock only dealt with when it came to legality. Brain damage from accidents wasn’t exactly unusual but usually it was him defending the one at fault not the one with the injuries. A bitter taste crept up the back of his throat and he started the vehicle. He went back to the trailer, collapsing on the couch and staring at the armchair. Jack and him had only rarely spent time in the trailer. Usually Jack tagged along at Brock’s insistence because his father was less likely to yell and kick up a fuss because he was disappearing for the weekend and in his absences nothing got done around the trailer. Brock always came home to a mess he had to clean up but it was worth it for those precious days with Jack. Was he the same person Brock had known? Brock certainly wasn’t that lanky sixteen year old anymore. 

It was more than time that had passed. It was experiences, life and death even. That put a huge barrier between them that Brock wasn’t certain could be overcome. In a way he felt a bit betrayed. Natasha, Clint, Bucky and Steve all hadn’t thought to let him in on such a serious event in Jack’s life and had left him looking like a fool in front of Jack. His apology was moot now; how did he appropriately proceed? Maybe it was his time in the city that made him hyper aware of political correctness. How would address talking to Jack when there was a chance he wouldn’t understand what he was saying and, assuming he did, couldn’t respond. That was a major detail for Natasha to leave out, like she was setting him up to fail. 

Hell, maybe she was. He deserved it, he could admit it. Defending shady individuals were so obviously guilty but got off because Brock managed to uproot with minor technicalities didn’t make him the most ethical person. But Jack didn’t deserve that. He wouldn’t have approached him had he known, as guilty as he felt thinking it. Jack didn’t need the extra stress, he didn’t need to put in a position like he had and Brock could at least blame that on his supposedly old friends. 

All at once he wanted to leave. He was furious he’d been set up to fail; that they would let poor Jack get roped into such a backstabbing move. He should have been more suspicious by Natasha accepting an apology so easily. How she’d roped Bucky and Steve in he didn’t know. Never had thought small town people could be so cruel but here he was, being punished for simply making a living. For growing past these people and the backwards ways. He missed his penthouse, he missed his office and the respect he commanded when he strode into the courtroom to continue his winning streak. He wanted to throw the plaintiffs’ evidence back into their face and spin a story of innocence around his client. He wanted to be back on the ground he knew how to tread rather than staggering around ways he’d outgrown. Huffing a breath through his nose he checked the time and, with great difficulty, resisted the urge to go to the diner before closing and let Natasha know what a sneaky bitch she was -- politeness be damned. He didn’t get to where he was being a kiss ass; he proved himself, weathered all kinds of storms and came out looking like a million bucks. He was too good for this place anyway. 

Fuck them all.


	7. Chapter 6

He hardly slept, the anger simmering inside of him keeping his mind reeling, replaying that pinnacle moment in Sweet On You where he looked like a fucking idiot. Brock wasn’t the kind of man who liked to be made a fool of and that was exactly what they had done. They had made him look like an idiot to someone they knew he’d once had feelings for it. It was unfair that they’d put Jack in that position and that was the cause of most of his anger. They’d done not only Brock dirty but Jack as well. 

Poor Jack who’d clearly been through hell and back. Brock was no doctor but he’d spent long enough time questioning doctors that he knew the severity of brain damage and how it could change a person. Chances were Jack wasn’t the man he once knew and he was better off cutting off ties with all of them. Maybe he could make it back to the city in the time for Alexander’s luxurious after party once the firm’s Christmas party wrapped up. It was an invitation that everyone sought but was only extended to a select few. Brock had been selected enough to consider his invitation a given. He needed a few stiff drinks and someone muscular to hang off of to fuck this whole experience out of him. 

With that thought in mind he sunk off to a trouble sleep where he dreamed of careening into Jack’s car. When he woke up he couldn’t remember it but something dark and drab remained. It was the day before Christmas Eve and everything that had to be done at Swallows Peak was accomplished. He could facilitate things from his office from there and Brock was eager to escape the decked out hellscape the town had become. He packed his things and loaded it into the car. When he saw the ‘Thanks for Visiting!’ sign in his rearview mirror he could finally breathe easy. It would take time to shake off the experience but once he got a case across his desk he would be okay. 

The relief was short-lived as his dashboard lit up, every single alert all at once and the car began to slow. 

“No,” Brock uttered, panicked. “No, no, no.” 

Dark smoke started to billow out from under the hood and with a furious line of cursing he cruised to the side of the road, punching the steering wheel in fury. He’d already told Sharon he was returning to the city this evening and now he had no idea if he’d be able to. He got out of the car and, as if he had any idea what he was doing, he popped the hood. He stared down at the mess of tubes and compartments and realized how little he knew about cars. 

“Fuckin’ great.” 

He pulled out his cellphone only to find that, of course, there was no service. “Fuck!” 

Taking a moment to get himself back together he wandered up and down the road in a desperate attempt to get at least a single bar. The universe was clearly intent on fucking him over because there wasn’t a position in which the ‘no signal’ would go away. He grabbed the keys, locked the car, and started to trudge back into town so he could get a proper signal and get a tow truck as well as a replacement car so he could get back to civilization. He wasn’t dressed appropriately for the weather as he was freezing shortly after the walk started. A brisk wind had started up as well, just to make him even more miserable. He was ten thousand percent done with Swallows Peak and that was just reinforced with every single thing that went wrong. 

A silver 4Runner came up the road and slowed beside him. His first real break, he thought until the windows rolled down and he was faced with Steve. “Brock? Are you okay?” 

“The piece of shit rental just shit the bed.” Brock said bitterly. He wasn’t too keen on seeing the blond at the moment but he knew he had to be diplomatic if he was going to escape the cold. “Mind bringing me into town? There’s no reception out here.” 

“Of course.” The locks popped and Brock slid into the warm vehicle. “Yeah it’s a big dead spot out here. The worst place to get broken down.” 

Brock nodded, rubbing his hands together briskly to get some feeling back into them. “What happened?” Steve asked, pulling a careful U-Turn. “Thank goodness I went to get paint. I’d hate to see you having to walk all the way back in this cold.” 

Brock doubted that was true but smiled regardless. Steve dropped him off in the square, still expressing concern. It was hard to distinguish if it was real or not. Brock was still surprised that Steve, of all people, would have intentionally put in that situation but he was still part of the guilty party by not telling him. Good actions didn’t overrule bad intentions. He managed to convince the man that he was perfectly fine before Steve finally backed down wished him the best.

“Hello?” Sharon answered. 

“I need you to send a tow truck and have Enterprise bring me something new. I want out of this town by tonight.” 

“Of course, Mr Rumlow. Any vehicle preference?” 

“One that won’t break down on me,” Brock said, a bit irritated. “Since that wasn’t conveyed the first time apparently.” 

“I’m sorry sir. I’ll be sure they check it before bringing it to you.” 

“Good.” He said and ended the call. 

He stood in the square with a sigh and looked up at the tree. Merry fucking Christmas to him. 

Standing outside in the cold for an undetermined amount of time wasn’t going to work for him so, with a huff of frustration he crossed the road to the diner. He’d escape the cold and then, before he left, he’d let Natasha just what he thought of her. The crowd was sparse, mostly elderly patrons idling between breakfast and lunch and socializing. Natasha was leaning against the counter, counting tips when Brock came in. She looked at him and smiled. It was very convincing. He returned it stiff-lipped and slid into the open bar. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Don’t lie to me.” she sat opposite of him and Brock couldn’t believe her nerve. “What’s wrong?” 

“What’s wrong,” he hissed, throwing decorum to the wind, “Is that you’re all a bunch of assholes.” 

Natasha blinked once, looking startled before a mask of indifference slipped across her face. “Oh really?” 

“Yes, really.” Brock sneered. “You don’t like the cases I’ve taken on? Fine. But to fuck with me -- fuck with Jack -- that’s just low.” 

Natasha’s pressed her lips together and leaned back. “And how exactly have I fucked you over, Brock?” 

“You know what you did.” Brock scoffed and looked out the window before locking eyes with her once more. “The guy has brain damage and you’re going to use him to teach me a lesson? That’s a new level of fucked up.” 

“I’m not following you.” 

Brock wished Enterprise was instant. Or that he could Uber his way out of the town. But no, he was being forced to be subjected to this slow cruel torture.

“You made it clear what you thought when you said you Googled me, Natasha.” Brock took a deep breath. He was going to be tossed out of here once he was through telling her what he thought about her and the rest of the god forsaken place. “If you want to step off of your soapbox you might realize that I’m not inherently evil for doing my goddamn job. You don’t like it? Don’t hire me. Not that you or anyone else here could ever afford me.” A jab at her financial situation was low but if Natasha had okayed this underhand attack he was well within his rights to get personal and dig deep. “But to keep pushing me to see Jack? Just so you can, what, throw it back in my face the damage some of my clients were accused of inflicting? Jack can’t even fucking speak and you’re using him as leverage against me? If you didn’t want to accept my apology you should have had the balls to say it to my face instead of setting me up to look like a fucking idiot.” 

Natasha was silent until Brock snapped, “Well?” 

“Are you done?” she asked, eerily calm. “That was quite a speech. Did you practice it?” 

“Bitchiness doesn’t look good on you, Natasha.” 

“Neither does assholery on you, Brock.” She folded her hands in front of her. “I wasn’t setting you up for anything. Jack used to be your best friend -- and more -- and that was why I pushed you to reconnect with him. I didn’t tell you because it wasn’t my place. It wasn’t anyone else’s either. Besides, had I told you, you’d never have gone to see him. So before you want to rant, rave and insult me you may as well let me justify myself. That’s how this whole court thing works right? Everyone gets a chance to speak?” 

Annoyed Brock said, “Fine. Go ahead.” 

“Thank you, Your Honor. As I was saying, I didn’t feel comfortable telling you something so personal. I wanted to give Jack a chance to tell you himself but, by your attitude, I take it you caught him on a bad day.” 

“The guy can’t speak or write and you send me in blind?” Brock hissed.

“He can most days. Sometimes it’s periodic. It’s still Jack.” 

“Not the Jack that I grew up with.” 

“Now that’s just close minded.” Natasha frowned. “Also you could do to accept a bit of humility. The world doesn’t revolve around you, weren’t not sitting around plotting against you, regardless of what you think.” 

Regret came creeping up his spine, spreading to his being. He knew Natasha wasn’t lying and that made him into the asshole. “Well I -- ”

“I’m not stupid. I’m not some bitch out to prove something to you. I told you how I felt about your kind of client and that’s the end of it. You’re more than a lawyer. I thought we were starting to become friends but clearly that’s not a shared feeling. That’s fine, I’m a big girl. I can accept it if you’re not interested in that kind of relationship.” 

“No, Nat… I just. I’m sorry. I’m sorry can we start this conversation over again?” 

“I don’t know.” Natasha crossed her arms. “You haven’t been very kind to me, especially considering that evening we spent together. I’m offended you think so little of me that you’d really think I would make a point to put you into, what I’m guessing, was a not so great reintroduction with Jack.” 

Brock cringed a bit. He didn’t blame her, he’d be offended too had someone come swinging out the gate. Remorse was useless unless something was done to temper it. “I’m sorry.” he said again, hanging his head a bit in shame. “I shouldn’t have jumped the gun.” 

“No, you shouldn’t have.” She crossed her arms. “Even if I wanted to teach you a lesson, I wouldn’t do it at the expense of another friend.” 

“Another friend?” 

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Rumlow. I’m surprised you stuck around to take the time to yell at me.” 

“I didn’t yell.” 

“You raised your voice. Same thing.” 

Brock disagreed but he wasn’t in a position to be making any points, not when he could have easily sent a relationship that was being pieced together to shambles. Brock raised his head. “I might have tried to leave.” 

“Without saying goodbye?” 

“I wasn't exactly happy with you when I left. But I hardly made it out of town before the car broke down. Something didn’t want me to leave apparently.” 

“Good thing it didn’t. I wouldn’t have liked it if you got up and left on me.” 

“Sorry, Nat.” 

“It’s okay, I forgive you. But let’s get down to brass tacks: when are you going to go and see Jack again/” 

“You’re relentless.” 

“And unapologetically so.” She leaned forward and propped her head on her hand. “Well?” 

“I was intending on never but… I don’t know if he’s the same guy. I know I’m not the same guy who left. He’s probably better off without getting to know the new me. He’d be...disappointed.” 

“And why would that be?” 

“Because,” Brock said bitterly. “I tend to defend the bad guys.” 

“Yes you do. Have you considered representing the good guys?” 

“That’s not what my firm specializes in.” 

“Maybe you should find a new firm.” 

A new firm? After all the blood, sweat and tears he’d put in to reach where he was? No. He hadn’t worked this hard to give up because a childhood friend suggested it. “Maybe,” he lied and quickly shifted the conversation to Jack, although that didn’t serve him much comfort either. “He seems like… It seems like me being there upset Jack. Made his...aphasia worse.” 

“So get through the stressful stuff. Stick around instead of running away.” 

“I didn’t run away -- wait, how do you know that?” 

“I have my ways.” 

“His employee told you, didn’t she.” 

“She might have.” 

Brock’s shoulders sagged under the weight of all this. “Great.” 

“I don’t know what you’re so afraid of. Jack isn’t made out of glass, you know. Just because he has a disability doesn’t mean you should treat him any differently.” 

On paper, sure, that made sense. But in real life, when faced with someone with brain damage, how was he supposed to carry on like he was talking to someone who didn’t have it? Brock knew better than to voice that. Natasha would shoot him down and insist that she knew what was best. And maybe she did but Brock wasn’t her. He didn’t have time invested to make acting casual believable; he was well aware of his own limitations in the matter. Brock scrubbed his hand over his face and sat back with a heavy sigh. He still had his car arriving at some point today and then he had the chance to leave the entire situation in the rearview mirror. Guilt festered in his chest as the idea of upping and going, especially after the conversation he’d carried on with Natasha. He’d made arrangements to leave but, should he stay, there wouldn’t be any repercussions. Nothing would happen until after Christmas day. So a day or two would be enough time to absolve himself from any guilt or regrets. And, should things go terribly wrong, he could always flee. That was a comforting fallback plan. 

“You’re right. I’ll go back over there later.” 

“Why later? My lunch crew will be coming back in. Go get a cinnamon roll or something. Support small businesses and all that.” 

Brock rolled his eyes. “I don’t know what you think is going to happen,” he said. 

She feigned innocence but the sparkle in her eye was obvious. “Whatever do you mean.” 

“Yeah,” Brock said. “That’s what I thought.” 

She stood up from the booth and gestured towards the door. “I’d walk quickly. It’s pretty cold today.” 

“You’re kicking your supposed friend outside to the cold?” 

“I prefer to think of it as urging to deal with something that you’d rather put off.” 

She wasn’t wrong. He stowed his hands in his pocket grumpily and started the cold walk down the street. The diner was just off of the main town square so he was only exposed to the elements for about five minutes, but he lingered to the side of Sweet On You, watching Wanda serving customers. No Jack in sight. Maybe he’d taken a day off? Just as he was considering going back to the diner he emerged, sleeves rolled up, carrying a tray with gingerbread men. Sucking in a deep cold breath he shouldered the door open. Jack looked up at him immediately and his eyes went wide. 

Brock wanted to bail. He stepped inside and out of the way of a woman with two small children. 

Jack set down the tray and stepped around the counter. Brock’s anxiety was paralyzing as his brain fought between fight and flight. “Brock,” he said, now close enough that Brock could gaze into painfully familiar green eyes. “I… I’m sorry about last time.” 

“You don’t have to apologize,” Brock said, voice too soft to come off like he didn’t know. 

Jack frowned a bit but didn’t address it. Brock kicked himself. Disabled people didn’t need to be treated like they were made of glass but he couldn’t help it; it was a gut reaction. “Yeah, well, it’s great to see you again.” 

It didn’t seem like Jack was having any trouble speaking and that confused Brock further. “Yeah, you too.” 

The bell dinged and both men looked over. A man in a red hat was holding the hand of a kid. “You chose one heck of a time to visit,” Jack said with a jittery laugh. “We’re doing a gingerbread decoration event. Hey -- why don’t you stay? Your cookie is on the house.” 

Brock wanted to say no almost as badly as he wanted to say yes. “Are you sure you have enough?” 

“I always overbake in case one gets dropped or eaten by the children too quickly.” 

Brock’s idea of fun wasn't decorating cookies with a bunch of snot nosed kids but… For a reason he could quite put his finger on why he wanted to stay. So he did. With a nod of acceptance he was rewarded with the same radiant smile he remembered. Faces aged but smiles never did and in that moment Brock really appreciated that. Brock hadn’t noticed the extra tables out when he first entered but now it was overtly obvious there was an event to be held. Wanda called Jack’s name and he turned towards her before returning to face Brock. 

“I have to go… Stay, please?” 

And how was Brock supposed to refuse that? “I’ll be here.” 

That smile again. Brock’s soul seemed to warm from it. When Jack was back at the counter Brock found a corner seat and settled in. He checked his email when his fingers were warmed up and saw the confirmation receipt of a rental. The estimated delivery wasn’t until nine pm and Brock wasn’t as annoyed as he thought he would be. He was in a strange position. There was a lot on the line but he had an escape ready. It sounded harsh in his head but it was what was what gave him the confidence to stay. 

Wanda passed out the cookies and everyone got a piping bag of icing. Big bowls of candy to be stuck onto the man was set in the middle of the table. The table hosted only Brock and a curly haired woman with a toddler. He was glad he wasn’t going to share a candy bowl with grimy little fingers of the five and six year olds. The kid’s mother smiled at him, apparently not finding it odd that a grown man was at an event tailored towards families alone. Brock returned it and started on his cookie. He was careful and slow in an attempt to impress Jack. There wasn’t a logical reason why he felt he needed to but the urge was there and Brock had no qualms about satisfying it. The event was over and done within forty short minutes and Brock had outdone himself in humble opinion. It looked exactly as it should have, complete with gumdrop buttons. Guests loitered, taking the time to thank Jack personally as small town culture demanded. Brock waited idly at the table, popping a left over gumdrop into his mouth as he waited for the bakery to empty out. 

When the last person was gone Jack turned his attention to Brock. Immediately color worked its way into Brock’s cheeks and he didn’t know why. Or maybe he did and he just wasn’t ready to address it. Jack approached him, eyes on the cookie still lying on the table. 

“You’ve got a real knack for that.” 

“It is a masterpiece,” Brock agreed and Jack smiled. “So… It’s been a while.” 

“A long while,” Jack agreed with a nod. He stopped just short of him. Brock was struck by the urge to hug him. Thankfully he kept his urges in check. “How have you been?” 

“Good -- great. Busy with work.” 

“I’ve seen your name in the Times. Seems like you’ve made quite a name for yourself in the big city.” Jack didn’t seem too outwardly bitter about his clients and Brock wasn’t going to press his luck by apologizing for something that Jack may not have seen much of a problem with. “I’m sorry about your father.” 

“Thank you.” Brock was getting tired of accepting condolences but there was no shortage of them in the future once he got back to work. “How long have you had this place?” 

“Three years. After -- well, I don’t know if Wanda told you about the accident -- ”

“She did.” 

“I used the money I got from it to open it up.” Jack was clearly comfortable talking openly about it. That gave Brock one less thing to tiptoe around so he appreciated it. 

“That’s great.” Brock rubbed his palms against his thighs nervously. “So… What have I missed? Any Mrs. Rollins in the picture?” 

Brock wished he could strike that from the record. Jack gave him an odd look. “Uh, nope. Any Mrs. Rumlow?” 

“No.” Brock had succeeded in making things awkward. Just great. “I never thought Barton would end up being a chef.” 

“People can surprise you.” 

“I guess so.” Brock shifted his weight. 

They began to speak at once and Brock quickly shut up. Jack did too for a moment before he said, “Do you want to catch up over dinner? My treat.” 

“Sure… I mean, that sounds great. I’d really like that.” 

“Good. I’m glad.”

“Do you need a hand cleaning up? I don’t have anything else to do.” 

Jack smiled at him. “If you don’t mind. It would never streamline things.” 

“Happy to help.” 

They started to tidy up in silence, Jack occasionally asking questions about the city and what he’d been up to since his return to Swallows Peak. He didn’t seem upset that Brock hadn’t tracked him down sooner. Slowly their conversation picked up and by the time Brock was wiping icing from the table words flowed comfortably from him. There was no shortage of things to talk about. Seven years provided plenty of padding. Jack seemed to get a kick out of the fact Brock had to call the judge ‘Your Honor’ considering how resistant he’d been towards authority as a kid. In that way Brock’s profession choice was strange. But Jack was right at home working with baked goods. He’d excelled in baking early on. One could argue that Brock had excelled at arguing so maybe it should have been obvious that he’d end up an attorney. Brock was invited into the back and Brock took advantage of it. He was always curious about the behind-the scenes, even more so now that it was Jack. 

The kitchen was awash in stainless steel. It was so very professional looking, like he was catching a glimpse of the kitchen at a high brow restaurant. Wanda was putting decorating tools away in plastic bins that popped against the shiny silver around it. They were transparent but colored which was a nice contrast. It made things a bit more homey, the way Brock would have expected the kitchen at a little bakery to be. Brock leaned against the counter, the cold metal seeping through his jacket, as Jack loaded up the dishwasher. 

“When do you go home?” Jack asked after a momentary lull. 

Tonight, Brock meant to say. But instead he said, “I don’t know yet.” 

“If you’re still around maybe we can go look at the lights tomorrow. Y’know for old times sake.” 

A smile crept across Brock’s face. He remembered Christmas Eve spent wandering the streets with Jack at his side. Standing side by side looking up at the town Christmas Tree. It was an old memory, one that had been long forgotten until today and Brock wasn’t certain what to make of it. The dishwasher cycle finished and Brock watched Jack unpacking it and stowing things away. Wanda was still carrying on, leaving Brock to fill the silence. 

“That sounds like a good idea. Maybe we can grab something to eat at the diner first.”

Jack laughed. “This isn't New York. Everything’s close on Christmas Eve. But if you’d like we could have dinner at my place? If that’s okay, of course,” Jack said quickly. “No pressure.” 

“I’d like that.” 

Jack looked over his shoulder at him with a smile. “It’s a date then.” 

A date? That startled Brock but not so much that he couldn't smile and nod. Brock stuck around until everything was back in order and Wanda said her goodbyes, wishing Jack and Brock a Merry Christmas. She smiled at Brock, bidding happy holidays and then it was just them. The air was sweet and sugary and the lighting was low. Brock stood there, shifting his weight from foot to foot trying to figure out what to say next. 

“How about a cup of coffee?” Jack asked when he finished wiping down the counter. “It’s not the best but it’s tolerable.” 

Brock had expected little more than an awkward conversation and yet here he was making plans when just a few hours earlier he was hellbent on leaving Swallows Peak, and all its denizens, behind. Now he was making plans, planning to stay. Plans that he was actually looking forward to; this was the Jack effect and Brock was finding himself thrown back into the past where he would do anything Jack suggested just to spend time with him. Things that he would have otherwise hated, like looking at lights, turned from mundane to incredible simply because of the man at his side. Some things didn’t change and this was one of them. Years apart and Brock was already falling into old habits. It was unnerving but in the best of ways. Like a string of luck that someone felt undeserving of. He stood by while Jack flipped the open sign to ‘closed’ and locked up. 

It was still cold but standing beside Jack took the edge off. “Can I ask who the cake was for?” 

“What?” 

“The ‘I’m sorry I was an asshole cake’.” 

“Oh.” Brock laughed. “Natasha. I probably owe her another.” 

“Oh really? Well Natasha is more forgiving than she used to be. But she’s not afraid to say what’s on her mind.” 

“Don’t I know it,” Brock said with a shake of his head. “I’m lucky to have gotten into her good graces.” Twice, he added mentally. “I’m sorry about the cake by the way.” 

“You caught me on a bad day,” Jack said with the gall to sound apologetic. “I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you.” 

“It’s been a long time. It’s understandable.” Brock bit the inside of his cheek and said, “I’m sorry I didn’t stay in touch.” 

“Life happens. It’s good to see now.” 

“It’s good to see you too.” 

The diner was busier than Brock had seen and Natasha was too busy to even notice them. Jack snagged the last empty booth without waiting to be seated. Brock sat opposite him. “Hey, let me buy you dinner.” Brock said.

“You don’t have to do that.” 

“I want to.” 

“Well, in that case, sure. I’d really like that.” 

By the time Natasha got to them Brock was starting to feel at ease. It was easy to drop his walls around Jack. It was like he was a teenager again, the only thing on his mind was the present. There was no worry about the future, no past to regret. He just basked in Jack’s attention. 

“Look who it is.” Natasha said, without even bothering to look surprised. “Pick your poison, Rumlow.” 

“Chicken fried steak.” 

That made Natasha blink and Brock took it as a win. “And you Jack?” 

“Oh -- ” Jack paused, eyes lost. He held up the menu and pointed to something. 

“Burger, got it. No onions or tomatoes right?” 

Jack shook his head no, paused, and did it again. “I don’t mean that.” 

“I know. Two Cokes right?” 

It’d been a long time since the taste of Coke had passed Brock’s tongue. It wasn’t a beverage allowed in his strict diet but seeing as he’d already blown it being here he may as well indulge. When he went home he’d get himself back on track. 

“Please,” Jack said and Brock echoed it. 

“I’ll be back with your drinks. It’s good to see you two together again.”

Brock was taken aback by that but Jack didn’t seem to be bothered so he held his tongue. After toying with the napkin dispenser Brock carefully asked, “What’s it liked?” 

“What?” 

“Having aphasia,” he said hesitantly. He didn’t want to spoil the mood or put Jack in an uncomfortable position but he was genuinely curious. Jack didn’t seem to consider a secret and his employee finished his sentences publicly. “If you don’t mind me asking.” 

“I don’t mind.” Jack said immediately. “It’s…strange, I guess. It’s hard to describe. You know those moments when you have a word on the tip of your tongue but you can’t seem to come up with it? It’s like that but sometimes I really can’t find it and I’ll get stuck on it until someone is able to fill in the blank. Sometimes I need help with recipes because simple calculations are suddenly impossible. It’s not always just words. Sometimes it’s a phrase made up of a few words that I can’t string together. Other times is polysyllabic words; sometimes it’s not catching what someone says when they say it. That doesn’t happen too much unless I’m watching TV. Sometimes I forget how to write. Things like that.”

“Is it hard?” 

“It can be. But people don’t mind it. Even when it takes me ages to say something that could have been said in a fewer words.” 

Brock couldn’t imagine anyone having trouble listening to the smooth baritone of his voice. “Thank you for explaining it.” 

“I’m glad to. But enough about me, tell me more about how things are in the city. Any more big cases coming up?” 

“My caseload got transferred when I came up here. I’m not sure which ones I’ll be taking back when I get back to the firm.” 

Jack gave him a sympathetic look but didn’t offer any condolences which Brock appreciated. Conversation over dinner flowed easily, only a few momentary hesitations where Jack couldn’t quite put a finger on the word he was trying to say. At first Brock was hesitant to offer suggestions but when he did and Jack didn’t seem upset it emboldened him to do so more. And, with that extra help, there was no hitch in their conversation. The chicken fried steak was just as good as Brock thought it would be. It had been a long time since he’d eaten stick-to-your-ribs foods and he certainly didn’t hate it. They talked while the crowd thinned around them and brock found himself drinking cup after cup of horrendous coffee just to keep talking.

At eight thirty Natasha ushered them out refusing offers to help clean up. Brock knew his car would be arriving in a half hour. “I’m waiting for a rental to come to replace the one at nine. I know it’s kind of cold but do you want to preview the lights before tomorrow?” 

“I’d like nothing more.” 

It was the fastest half hour of his life and soon they were standing by the tree waiting for Enterprise to pull up. He was brought an X5 and the driver left in a dark SUV that had followed him down. With the keys in hand he faced Jack, watching their breath freeze in the air. “It’s been nice catching up,” Jack said with a nod towards the car. “If you’re still interested in dinner -- ”

“I am.” 

“How does six sound?” 

“Good.” Brock said with a smile. 

“Six it is.”

Jack turned away and Brock walked to his car feeling lighter than ever before. He hadn’t expected to drive back to the trailer but there he was. His mind was miles away and almost a decade back. He had reconnected with Jack -- and it had actually gone well. Maybe Brock was throwing too much in too fast but he had a limited scope of time to… Brock didn’t have a complete idea of what he was doing yet but it felt right. He had found himself suspended in a world all its own. Nothing could come of tomorrow night besides new memories and that was what Brock was betting on. Anything more than that… Well, he wasn’t sure how he felt about the possibility, assuming it was even a remote possibility. Jack may have called it a date but there was a good chance it was just a friendly term. Brock didn’t want to read too deeply into something that may have meant nothing.

He laid in his childhood bed and it was like he transported back in town to where he was almost too excited to sleep. Not because of the holidays but because of the time he would be able to spend time with Jack without the interruption of school days or sharing him with the rest of his friends. It would be just the two of them wandering the streets of Swallows Peak, backs of their hands occasionally bumping against each other as though trying to coax Brock into bravely taking his hand. He never was able to, always too afraid to lose Jack. Because back then, life without Jack wasn’t worth living. Jack was his life. Now things were different. There was a lot riding on if he dared do such a thing now they were adults with their own lives. Brock had a life over 400 miles away. Brock expected that to lower the stakes but it didn’t. Knowing he could retreat to the safety of his real life wasn’t as reassuring as it was supposed to be. 

If it wasn’t for Jack he’d have left alright but he was worth staying for. So whatever happened tomorrow night would happen. Was it worth pushing his luck for something that couldn’t come to anything? Was satisfying his curiosity of what-ifs really worth that much? It wouldn’t change anything -- it couldn’t. He couldn’t up and abandon his life for a small town life and he couldn’t ask Jack to leave his store even though it would do well in the city. Brock was wasting his time but he couldn’t get it out of his mind -- he was too stubborn.

He’d just have to take things as they came.


	8. Chapter 7

Brock wished he had brought more clothes. He’d worn the best of his clothing for his outings and now he was left with the rejects he’d packed. A pair of casual navy Chinos and a gray Columbia fleece that he didn’t know why he’d even purchased it. He reminded himself that this wasn’t New York and style was hardly a cause for concern but he wanted everything to be perfect for Jack. The Chinos didn’t go with his jacket but it was better than khakis. 

“Get it together Rumlow,” he muttered, turning a bit in the mirror. “They’re a bunch of country bumpkins.” 

Just like he used to be. Jack had never fussed over his appearance when they were kids but Brock had raised his standards since then. He had to do so to sell himself to his clients and be accepted by those affluent people around him. It had been indispensable when it came to rising up in ranks from a file clerk to a first-year associate. He sighed heavily and rested his hands on the sink. Going into court didn’t even make him this nervous, this was absolutely ridiculous. But when it came to Jack he could rarely make sense of himself. It was like he lost all sense of self and grew hyper aware of every flaw he had as if that was all Jack could see. 

It had been an hour since he’d stepped out of the shower and started rooting through his luggage for what to wear. In his day to day he hardly ever spent this much time getting ready, much less simply getting dressed, but here he was. 

“You look fine.” he told his reflection sternly. 

Brock hadn’t been on a date in ages. Dating took up too much time and when it came to being an attorney time was quite literally money. But right now his time was nothing but that -- his. And he was deciding to spend it with Jack. Brock stared into his own eyes, searching his soul for a clear intention of the night. He’d always wondered what it would feel like to kiss Jack. He wondered if he’d feel the scar against his lips. Was Jack a gentle kisser or one who would seize his jaw and kiss him roughly. Brock preferred the former; there was nothing better than being manhandled. But surely Jack was too nice to be a domineering top. 

Oh God, when did he start thinking about Jack in bed? His cheeks were ruddy but now that his mind had reached that point things were well out of his control. Would he wrap a hand around his throat to hold him steady while thrusting hard and fast? Would he cradle the back of his head as he stroked deep and slow? Brock was fine with either of those things: as long as they were both naked and touching he was perfectly okay with it. 

He splashed on Bleu De Chanel and headed for the door. He didn’t so much as glance at the armchair. 

Jack had texted him the address, unnecessary because Brock still remembered how to get there. The Rollins family home had aged finely. The barewood had been covered by smokey gray cedar shakes and the roof redone from evergreen colored metal to asphalt shingles. The farmer’s porch was decorated for the holidays, lights weaved between the railings and hung up along the roof’s eaves. There was a santa sled with reindeers metal decoration with lights strung up around it and a blow up Christmas Tree. It was equal parts tacky and beautiful. He parked beside a rusted out pick up by a garage that looked to be more of a hobby shop than a garage. When they were kids Jack loved stripping and rebuilding engines of various shapes, sizes and brands. It looked like his current project was a broken down Harley-Davidson. 

Brock got out of the car and on instinct locked it. The door opened and Jack stepped out. Warm light swelled behind him. He met him at the bottom of the steps and Brock wished he had thought to pick up a bottle of wine. “Hi.” 

“Hi. I should have brought something.” 

“Nonsense. You’re my guest.” 

“Good guests bring a gift.” 

“Not around here. C’mon.” 

Brock followed him in and it was like a blast from the past. The mudroom had been redone, insulation no longer puffed out from the walls. Smooth pine panels had been put in and the old worn coat rank had been replaced by a row of shiny wooden knobs for coats to be hung on. Most of them were full of various jackets; thin, thick, soft shell, windbreaker. Jack held his hand out for Brock’s coat and he slipped it off. He watched it join all of Jack’s and, maybe it was his hopefulness, but it looked right there. Like it had been saved just for him. 

The smell of wood smoke hung in the air. Brock always liked that the Rollins had a woodstove. When he was a kid it was because he thought Santa had better access -- when he still believed in the jolly man. As he got older it became something different, rustic and warm the way a house should have been. Brock followed him and was met by the cold green stare of a massive furry cat stretched out on a tan suede couch. 

“Brock this is Grace.” The cat looked at Jack and mewed. “Grace, Brock.” 

“I thought you always wanted a dog.” 

“I do but I don’t have the time a dog deserves. Besides, she’s about the size of a small dog.” 

Brock laughed. “You could say that again.” 

The rough grain floors had been changed up to glossy finished softwood and the walls changed from faded blue to that of gingerbread with white trim. “The place looks great.” 

“I did a whole overhaul after the accident.” Jack said. “I’m glad you got to see it finished. It was quite a mess.” 

“You did this all yourself?” 

“Yup,” Jack looked around. “I think it turned out alright.” 

“It turned out more than alright.” Brock looked around with a renewed sense of appreciation. He’d thought a contractor had come in to do the work. “Wow.” 

He became aware of the smell of red sauce as they got closer to the dining room and beneath it the smell of garlic bread. A good Italian meal just made the entire experience even better. There was a bottle of merlot on the table and Brock wondered if it was the lighting or if Jack was really blushing. “I hope this is okay. I know it used to be your favorite meal.” 

“It’s perfect.” 

Jack exhaled in relief. “Oh good. Sit, sit.” 

Brock sunk down in the chair gestured to and Jack took it upon himself to serve the spaghetti with red sauce. He filled his wine, a bit higher than Brock would have, but he wasn’t one to complain about too much wine. Jack served himself and then sat. He waited until Brock took his first bite -- the sauce was flavorful and full with oregano, garlic and sweet tomatoes with just a hint of malbec. The pasta was tender to the teeth. Jack began to eat as well and Brock picked up the piece of garlic bread. These were carbs that he hadn’t had in ages and he was loving every moment of it. The garlic bread was everything Brock had missed; soft and butter soaked flesh with a crisp crunchy crust. He let it sit on his tongue for a moment, just enjoying the way it tasted. 

He washed it down with merlot. Jack clearly wasn’t well versed in serving wine. It was warm which made the alcohol too hot and muddled all the other flavors. Merlot was best to sit in the fridge for fifteen minutes prior to serving. He didn’t say that of course -- he was a better guest than that. “So how do you usually spend your holidays?” 

Brock swallowed and dabbed at his lips before responding. “There’s a firm party.” 

“What are those fancy sort of parties like?” Jack asked curiously. “I’m sure they’re wild.” 

“Not really. I mean it’s high brow but it’s… It’s like work.” Brock said, now he was really thinking about it. “There’s an order to defer to. You have be your absolute best.” 

“Sounds...not fun.” 

Brock laughed. It had been a long time since he did anything for ‘fun’. In the regard of fun very little in his life qualified. Time with his trainer was all he could really pinpoint as fun. “It’s not.” 

“So why do it?” 

“It’s for work.” 

“You work so much, when do you do other things?” 

“I carve out time for myself. I see a personal trainer.” Brock shrugged. “It works for me.” 

“That’s what’s… Uh,” Confusion ghosted across Jack’s face and he squinted a bit as he searched for the word. “What’s… Fuck.” 

“Important?” Brock guessed. 

Jack smiled. “Yes, thank you.” 

“What about you?” Brock asked. “What do you do?” 

“Usually I meet up with Nat and Clint -- and Buck and Steve when they’re around.” 

“I hope I didn't get in the way of that,” Brock said with a frown. 

“No, no. I wanted to spend it here. It’s not everyday you come into town.” 

Guilt stabbed at him at that. It was a bit ridiculous that he felt bad about not being around, especially when he had intentionally built a life far away from the dredges of small town life but when he was faced with Jack, the one thing that had pained him to leave in the beginning, he felt bad. 

“I should have visited more.” 

“Well, yeah,” Jack said with a playful eye roll. “But you’re here now. That’s all that matters.” 

And when Jack put it that way it soothed Brock. Now was what mattered; there was nothing he could do about the past. He just had to make the most out of the present. 

After they ate Brock helped with dishes. It’d been years since he washed a dish by hand but he didn’t mind getting his hands dirty for Jack. After the dishes were resting into a bamboo drying rack they dried their hands and, like old times, they took two beers each and headed out. It had been a long time since Brock rode in a truck and it took some adjustment as he climbed into the cab. It was cold and smelled of gasoline and diesel. It teleported him back in time to Jack’s ‘92 Chevy Cheyenne. Back then there was nothing better than back road drives at night, hanging out the window -- the window that had to be lowered by a crank. 

“Whatever happened to Big Blue?” 

Jack laughed, rich and loud. “I can’t believe you still remember what we called that piece of shit.” 

“Hey,” Brock said. “That was our childhood. Don’t insult him.” 

“Big Blue finally broke down for good about a year after you left. Couldn’t go on without you, I guess.” 

It was a joke but Brock couldn’t escape the feeling of responsibility. He cracked open the beer -- it had been ages since he last drank beer that came canned but it left him reminiscing. He let the weight settle in his palm and looked across the cab where Jack was focused on the road. Passing headlights lit up the profile of his face and Brock was once more caught off guard by how handsome he was. He had been handsome before and now he was even more so. Brock had to ask himself what he wanted to achieve tonight. He knew what he wanted to do but he didn’t know if he had the strength or courage. 

“What?” Jack asked and Brock realized he had been staring. “Do I have something on my face.” 

Brock quickly focused his attention forward. “Sorry,” he said. “I was… I was just thinking.” 

“Ah,” Jack said but he didn’t press. 

Brock almost wished he would have. 

They reached the village and the world turned red, green and white. Lawns were adorned with decorations. The one to the life had a massive blow-up snow globe with a family of snowmen inside. A fan ran inside of it keeping ‘snow’ flurrying around the dome. To his right there was a massive Christmas tree decked out with twinkling lights and strings of garland. A massive wreath was hung on the door. It was one of a kind. It put Barney’s display to shame. They were both quiet as Jack coasted at a creeping speed down the road. The house’s windows were lit up, a peek inside the family festivities. Families crowded on the couch watching Christmas movies, the children hardly able to sit still as they awaited nightfall when Santa would come. 

“It’s beautiful,” Brock found himself saying. “I forgot that Christmas could be like this.” 

“I take it Christmas in the big city leaves something to be desired.” 

It did. It lacked the warmth, the company, the cheer that only small towns could ever achieve. There was an ache in his chest as he was faced with what he had tried so adamantly to avoid --- he wished he never left. Money, prestige...it didn’t satisfy him and maybe that was because it wasn’t what he really wanted. He’d left a kid eager to see what else the world had to offer and he was so caught up in making a name for himself that it was all he had. He existed as an attorney and little more. He’d yet to make a meaningful social connection and maybe it was for a reason. 

“No,” Brock said, swallowing thickly. “They’re not.” 

Jack parked in front of his store, the lights still twinkling in the window. Homey. “Are you okay?” 

Brock tore his eyes from the display window and found Jack in his space. Brock realized he wasn’t the only one hoping to take a risk. So he closed his eyes and leaned in. He wasn’t bold enough to cut the space himself but he didn’t have to, Jack pressed his lips against his. It was a short kiss but it said more than Brock had been able to. Jack’s hand came up to cup the back of his neck, drawing him closer. They parted but neither man leaned away. Jack stroked the back of his hand with a long pale finger. Brock’s finger twitched and slowly rolled over and open. Jack took and held it. Brock released a shaky breath as his world seemed to shatter. 

“Was that okay?” Jack asked quietly. 

“Yes.” Brock looked at him, the lights behind him danced in Jack’s evergreen eyes. “More than okay.” 

Jack leaned back and looked out the windshield. “I’ve wanted to do that since we were eleven.” 

Brock’s insides iced up. “Me too.” 

“Who’d think it’d take us this long to…” 

“Kiss.” Brock injected and he saw Jack nod in the corner of his eye. 

The mood had shifted from romantic and hopeful to melancholy and Brock knew why. “When I saw you I thought… I thought this is my chance to see if there had ever been something between us. I guess I didn’t know what I’d do once I found out.” 

“Jack -- ”

“It’s okay Brock. You don’t need to explain it. I know.” 

Brock bit his bottom lip and was overtaken by regret. He’d expected pieces to fall into place after that one magical kiss but this wasn't some fairy tale. Real life was unforgiving. Holidays were intoxicating but they were a high that was quick and brutal when it came to coming off them. And this was brutal because it had answered the biggest ‘what-if’ Brock had harbored. Perhaps if he’d been braver, bolder, things would have been different. The kiss had changed nothing and everything all at once. 

Jack cut in the engine and popped the tab on his beer taking a drink. “C’mon,” he said. 

Brock slid from the truck and Jack met him in front of the truck. He offered his hand and Brock took it without hesitation. As they walked it started to snow, flakes falling and clinging to their jackets before dissolving into the nothing. Brock felt like he was dissolving to nothing. They stopped in front of the tree. Clay ornaments made by school children were hung low and sloppily. One had fallen. Brock let go of Jack’s hand and stooped down to pick it up. He wiped snow from the photograph in the middle and a little girl missing one of her front teeth grinned at him. He hung it up and crossed his arms. 

“That was nice of you.” 

“‘Tis the damn season, right?” Brock asked with a half quirked smile. He took a drink of his beer. It was cheap and metallic and fitting. “Did it always look like this?” 

“Yup.” Jack wrapped an arm around his shoulders and Brock leaned against him. It was strange how easy it was to sink into him. “Merry Christmas Brock.” 

“Merry Christmas Jack.” 

Side by side they stared at the tree, each swept up in their own thoughts. Brock didn’t want to leave. He wanted to stay suspended in the moment forever but he was painfully aware of how impossible that was. If anything it made time leach away faster. He rested his head against Jack’s side and closed his eyes. If nothing else at least he could cling to this memory. They stood there until their beers were gone and then a bit longer afterwards. Neither of them said a word, too caught up in coming to terms with an increasingly bleak situation. They had both waited too long and that had spoiled a future together. That wasn’t small to grieve. But it was Brock’s fault really. He had been so consumed by his quest to become someone had left behind those who knew him. 

“Ready to head back?” Jack asked, shattering the frozen quiet. 

Brock drew back from the warmth of his embrace and nodded his head. “Yeah.” 

The walk to the truck was quiet, both still sorting through the situation on their own. The truck was cold and even with the heater on blast Brock couldn’t rid himself of the chill. It was bone deep. The ride was painfully quiet and Brock wanted to say something, wanted to bridge the gap that had stretched between them after the kiss, but the right words failed him. It was beyond frustrating to be stuck speechless. He always had something to say, a side effect of arguing for a living, but Brock couldn’t think of the right words. He wondered if this was how Jack felt daily. He hoped not. 

Jack parked beside Brock’s rental and looked at him with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “It was really good to see you again Brock.” 

“You too.” 

Brock wanted to be invited in, to have an excuse to stay longer and soak in Jack’s presence before he left again but no invitation was extended and maybe that was for the best. Things were painful enough as was. Brock hugged him, biting his cheek to avoid any moisture jumping to his eyes. It worked thankfully and Brock was able to face him with dry eyes and well wishes. They’d had a night, a moment stolen away from the real world, and that had to be enough because there was nothing more they had left. Brock had gotten a glimpse of a road he hadn’t gone down. He should have been thankful for that -- and he was -- but it had left him hungry for something he couldn’t have. 

So he’d have to call it even and go with that in mind. 

They hugged goodbye -- a real goodbye. There was nothing left tying him to Swallows Peak. His father was dead and gone and there was nothing left. As Brock pulled out his vision blurred with tears that he held back the best he could. He went back to the trailer and laid for all of ten minutes before getting up and packing up his things. He turned off the furnace, closed the armchair and locked up the trailer before he got into the car and started the eight hours journey home.


	9. Chapter 8

He had beat most of the traffic and getting back home was a relief. The first thing he did was step in the shower and try to wash the trip off of him. He ended up pink for standing in the hot water too long. Brock tried to enjoy the vast space the trailer hadn’t provided, the egyptian cotton sheets and a big roomy bed for him and him alone. But that left him feeling lonely so he got out of bed, eyes burning with exhaustion and made himself a Christmas drink. He enjoyed it on the balcony, staring at the infinity pool and the city lit up below him. The air was thicker there, the taste of pollutants more prominent after breathing in the fresh Maine air for so long. He’d adjust of course. He’d have to. 

And hopefully once he did he’d adjust to being away from Jack as well. The man was like a drug and Brock was reminded of how infatuated he had been as a teenager. Teenage him would have murdered him to know he’d walked away. But teenager Brock didn’t understand that he’d built his life up from the ground. Turning away from it for a chance at love wasn’t worth it -- was it? He polished off his drink and stripped down getting into the pool. He basked in it’s heated warmth and stared at the gray sky above him. Brock should have said proper goodbyes. It felt like he had run away and well, that wasn’t exactly wrong. He already missed his friends but he doubted they’d spare him much of a thought after running out on them once again. 

Brock sunk below the surface, holding his breath as he tried to quiet his thoughts. Swallows Peak was four hundred miles away. He was free of it, free of guilt and memories.

If only that was true. 

He had their numbers. He could call and explain his abrupt leaving. Well, no he couldn’t. Not honestly at least. A work emergency, Brock thought. That would be a good excuse. But Natasha would see through and call him out. He came up for air and laid on his back. The cold air pressed against his exposed skin, goosebumps creeping across the expanse of his skin. 

“What have you done to me Jack?” he wondered aloud. 

Eventually he got too cold and too tired to remain in the pool so he got out, dried off, fell into his too big bed, and promptly fell into a deep dreamless sleep. Brock woke up mid afternoon with a headache and overbearing guilt. It wasn’t fair of him to feel that way, to bear this burden because he had made a life for himself away from Swallows Peak. But fairness didn’t dictate his emotions. He checked his phone and his gut sunk as he saw an unopened message from Natasha. With a deep steading breath he opened it. 

Natasha: whatever happened to that goodbye? 

Brock toyed with his cellphone, turning it over in his hands and checking his email to try and stave off the inevitable. With a deep breath he responded, ‘Things didn’t go as planned with Jack’. Why lie? What was the purpose when they were so far away from each other? 

He got out of bed and dressed for the day before remembering it was Christmas. His phone chimed; he didn’t want to read it. It was probably Natasha calling him out for doing something so stupid. If he was feeling this way then Jack probably was too and now Brock had spoiled his favorite holiday. That hardly slowed his steps as he left the apartment, nodding at the doorman as he got in the rental to return it to Enterprise. Afterwards he Ubered home; he wished he had work to do, something to keep his mind busy. Instead he was left to suffer in the past few days, at what he had left behind and about what he wished he could fix but couldn’t. He never should have kissed Jack. Regardless of how badly he wanted to know if there was something there he failed to estimate the gravity of the effect it would have on him. A kiss that was never meant to happen had sent his world askew and Brock didn’t know how to center himself again. That is, assuming it was that simple. It rarely was. 

After he had wandered to the couch, stiff and rarely used, he finally opened the message. 

Natasha: ‘That’s what I hear. You both took a shot and clearly it didn’t go well for either of you.’ 

Brock scoffed at his phone and replied, ‘You think? I’m such an idiot. I never should have made that move.’

The response was quick. ‘You shouldn’t have left without talking to him. He thinks he drove you out of town. He’s too afraid to even text you.’

Gutted Brock closed his eyes. The last thing he had wanted was to make Jack feel at fault -- they both shouldered the blame but it had been caused by Brock. He was the one who came into town and gambled with a road not taken. Of course there was going to be fallouts from that. Squeezing his eyes shut his headache throbbed sickening. He needed a drink. A strong one. Maybe more than one. 

‘It’s not his fault.’

‘It takes two to kiss.’ 

Brock’s jaw set. He didn’t like the idea of any responsibility of what had happened being pushed onto Jack. Brock was the one who had come bursting in and ruining his Christmas. He didn’t want to think about Jack sitting with Natasha and Clint all downtrodden and defeated, suffering the way Brock currently was. He should text him, he knew that he should, but he wasn’t nearly brave enough for that. Not right now at least. He leaned back and stared at TV mounted across from him. He doubted that TV would help but he gave it a try. Christmas movies played on almost every channel, images of warmth and welcoming. Love and closeness of family and friends. Brock didn’t have that in the city. He never made time for it and the holidays were a good reminder of that. Usually he would have spent the day day-drinking and enjoying time off. But now he’d gotten a taste of what it was like to be among friends he remembered how much he’d once loved it. 

The holidays had been made by his time among friends, something that he’d weaned off of when he left. Now he wanted it back. 

‘It’s not Jack’s fault. I made the first move.’ 

‘If he didn’t want to kiss you he wouldn’t have.’

She wasn’t wrong but that didn’t make things any easier to swallow. Brock heaved a heavy sigh that echoed around him. He turned the volume up to fill the silence around him. ‘I guess.’

‘I still can’t believe you left without saying goodbye.’

‘I wasn’t really thinking straight, Nat.’

‘You’re lucky I love you.’

Brock couldn’t remember the last time someone said they loved him in a genuine way. One-nighters expressing their glee in sex overlooking the city didn’t count. Brock swallowed thickly. 

‘Can you apologize to the guys for me?’

‘Absolutely not. I’m not an enabler. Grow a pair and face up.’

Brock had to laugh because if he didn’t he would cry. It was a comfort that Natasha had not only forgiven him but refused to coddle him. So he opened up a new message and texted Clint, then Steve, and finally Bucky apologizing for leaving so abruptly. He didn’t bother explaining -- if Natasha knew, Clint knew. And once Clint knew something everyone found out. He got quick responses assuring him that it was okay and wishing him a Merry Christmas. He opened the messages between him and Jack and stared at their last conversation -- Jack’s address and him telling him to drive safe. He drafted a message, rethought it and deleted it. He knew Jack had an iPhone and should he be in his messages he’d see the three dots exposing him as texting. He switched over to Notes. 

‘I shouldn’t have kissed you like that. We live drastically different lives and we both know it won’t work out.’ No -- it was too harsh, too bluntly honest. 

‘I had a great time with you and it was so nice to catch up. Wishing you the best.’ No -- too fleeting and uncaring. 

Brock groaned inwardly and dunked his head downwards. Drafting personal messages was harder than drafting contracts and that was saying something. “Okay Rumlow, you’ve got this.” 

‘I’m sorry about how we ended things.’ 

That was it. That was a message that conveyed exactly what he was trying to say. It wasn’t too wordy, wasn’t too impersonal. Brock sucked in a deep breath and hit send. The time leading up to answer felt like ages but the second his phone pinged it felt far too soon. His fingers shook a bit as he unlocked his phone. 

‘Can I call you later?’ 

That...that wasn’t at all what he expected. He had hoped for a confirmation that it had affected him but that he would be able to move on without too much heartache. A call? Could Brock trust himself not to blurt on how regrets, at how he wished he’d had the balls to kiss him when they were young. Who knew how differently his life would have gone. He certainly wouldn’t have left Swallows Peak. 

‘Sure.’

Brock set the phone aside and drew in a shaky breath. He had no way of knowing what he’d say during the phone call. He could be calling to cuss Brock would for fucking with his head. He could call and beg Brock to abandon his life and live out a childhood fantasy in a teeny town. The scary part was knowing that if he asked, he would agree. He was willing to put everything on the line, give up everything he’d worked so hard for to pursue something that may go bust. And that terrified him. Jack had always had an effect on him and it was more apparent than ever. He took his head in his hands and searched his soul for an answer. His one weakness had come crawling out of the woodwork and now he had to face it.

Brock hovered around his phone for the next hour and a half, holding it in his hands and staring at the home screen waiting for it to ring. He felt like a teenage girl, desperately holding out for a call from her crush. But when it came to Jack things rarely worked out that way. When the call did come he was momentarily paraylzed. He swiped his thumb across the screen and cradled it to his ear. 

“Hello?” 

“Hey,” Jack was quiet for a moment. “How are you?” 

Brock looked around his empty apartment and the half drank mimosa on the coffee table. “Good,” he lied. “How are you?” 

“Okay. Sorry I didn’t call you immediately, we were swapping gifts.” 

Gifts. Brock hadn’t gotten a Christmas gift since he left for NYCU. Well, they did give out Christmas baskets at the firm but that didn’t count. It wasn’t personal. “No problem,” Brock came to the decision to be casual until Jack gave an indication he wanted to talk about something deeper. “Did you have a good time?” 

“It would have been better if you were there.” 

Brock swallowed. “Sorry. I…” 

“I know,” Jack said softly. “I keep thinking that had I done that before you left, maybe you would have stayed. And then I feel bad because you’ve made an incredible life for yourself.” 

It didn’t feel that incredible with Jack’s voice so tiny and distant. “I wish I would have too.” 

“We didn’t get a proper goodbye.” Jack said and Brock could hear his frown. “If we had… It’s for the best. If we had I would have asked you to stay. But that’s not fair and I know that.” 

“Why isn’t it?” Brock’s heart had leapt to his throat. This was the moment, the scenario where he said yes. It was frightening. 

“You’ve made something out of yourself; you’re a big deal. You belong there. It’s what you’ve worked so hard for and who knows if we’d actually…” Jack trailed off and Brock wasn’t sure if it was him unwilling to say the words that followed or if he was having trouble finishing the sentence. 

So Brock finished it. “Work out.” 

“Yeah,” Jack said, releasing a breath. “It was good to see you again Brock but you can’t abandon everything you’ve accomplished for a fling.”

Jack wasn’t asking him to stay. He was releasing him, freeing him from guilt for his own reluctance. And Brock was taking it in greedily. “It was good to see you again, Jack.” he finally managed. 

“You too.” 

They lingered on the call just long enough for politeness and when Brock set the phone aside tears welled up in his eyes. It’d been years since a tear had graced his eyes but here was holding back the moisture gathering in his eyes. Each breath made his throat sear with emotion and he felt abandoned. Empty, lost, floating in a cold empty abyss. It was ridiculous that he was bothered to this point. What had he really expected? He’d planned for this ever since they broke apart from that kiss. Brock knew it would end in heartbreak for the both of them but he hadn’t expected it to hit him so hard. He’d imagined Jack feeling the way he did and Brock feeling guilty but confident in his decision. But now he wasn’t so sure. Was there a fix for how he was feeling? 

He got up, wiping away the tears. Brock took a 2012 bottle of albarino in the wine from the wine refrigerator on the counter and filled up his biggest wine glass and leaned against the counter. He didn’t savor it, didn’t even taste it. He tipped it back and let it soothe him. It took three glasses for the painful edge of loneliness to ground down so it didn’t cut so deeply. 

Brock had been happy before Jack. But there had been happiness when he was with him too. Brock didn’t doubt that this pain would end eventually but he didn’t know how to survive it while it was still so fresh. Tomorrow he would contact Sharon, get his cases moved back to him so he could focus on something other than the gaping hole inside of him made by Jack. 

There was nothing else he could do.


	10. Chapter 9

The first month was hard. He kept in contact with Natasha, Clint, Steve and Bucky. He didn’t text Jack and Jack never texted him. It was better that way. No fresh wounds to be torn open if Brock read too deeply into a message. Natasha assured him things were going well in the diner and that Steve was heading out for his final tour. Brock wished him the best and Bucky left shortly afterwards headed for a base in Hawaii. It sounded safer than the Middle East so Brock was thankful for that. He had rediscovered how much he loved his friends and the fact they were catching up again felt nice. So nice it almost overshadowed what Brock had to admit was heartbreak. Brock didn’t even know he’d given Jack his heart to break but he had and now he had to heal from it. 

Work kept him busy however. He had three civil cases and one criminal case where his client was being accused of drunken disorderly at a restaurant. It was an open and closed case -- it was a private location that he owned a share of. Easy cases still took considerable preparation. He had to ensure he could counter any argument that opposing counsel had. Brock was also anticipating civil cases rising against him for ‘damages’. Whenever someone with considerable wealth was faced with any public charge, money hungry people came crawling from the woodwork to claim they had been severely impacted by it. If Brock was making so much money he’d be annoyed.

It was good to settle into a familiar rhythm. Early court proceedings, late nights in his office. Daily gossip updates after he retrieved messages from Sharon. The condolences had come to a stop two weeks in. No more bouquets of flowers he gave to Sharon, no Edible Arrangements. Things were finally getting back to normal. 

So when Jack called him he was taken completely off guard. 

“Hello?” he said dumbly, resting his fountain pen back into the stand at the top of his desk. He looked at the papers spread out in front of him but couldn’t read a single one he was so swept up in shock. 

“Brock -- I’m sorry to call you I just…” Jack sounded panicked and speech seemed to be failing him. “I-I-I…” 

“Is Wanda there?” 

There was silence on the other end and then rustling before a soft voice said, “Mr. Rumlow?” 

“Call me Brock. What’s wrong?” 

“A woman came in -- visiting family -- and she dropped coffee on herself and says she’s going to sue Jack.” 

Brock’s eyes drifted shut. Of course she would. Any lawyer would tell her it was a waste of time; it was a mom and pop establishment that would only be able to pay out a fraction of what she felt she deserved. But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t take every cent she possibly could without a care in the world. It would destroy Jack’s business. 

“Is he okay?” 

“He’s been a mess all morning. He’s really worried. I think he was looking to hire you.” 

“I can’t take on his case. I’m not licensed in Maine. But… I think I know someone who can. Tell him I’ll call him back later this afternoon, okay? Tell him to not to worry.” 

“Thank you Mr. Rumlow.” 

“Don’t thank me yet.” Brock warned. He knew a lawyer who practiced in Maine but he worked for a rival firm and Alexander wouldn’t be pleased if he heard he was referring clients to another firm. But he was owed a favor. “I’ll call you back later.” 

“Okay, thank you.” She paused and then said, “She can’t really sue Jack right?” 

“She can try.” Brock wasn’t going to lie to her. “But hopefully we can stop that.” 

He could hear Jack speaking in the background and the phone shuffled to his hands.

“Brock, she’s going to sue me.” His voice was so fragile, like he was on the verge of breaking. He probably was. Like all small business owners he had everything wrapped up in it. It should have been illegal for things like this to happen in a place like Swallows Peak where everyone knew each other and showed each the utmost kindness. An outsider now threatened that balance and Brock couldn't stand for that, even if he had almost done the same. 

“She’ll shut us down, Brock. She-she’ll take-take-take…” he stalled out, speech failing him once more. Brock felt a urge of protectiveness. The fact they hadn’t spoken for months meant nothing in that moment. “What do I do?” 

“I’m going to contact someone who can help you. Just hang in there for a bit okay?” 

There was a knock on the office door and Sharon let herself in. She had his sashimi in his her hands. Brock waved for her to set it down as Jack said, “Okay.” like he was only just barely in control. He couldn’t fault him for that; imagining how it would feel to be in a position like that. The threat of legal action was always frightening. Law wasn’t something commonly understood and that ignorance made space for people like Brock to charge outrageous prices for something that could be solved by checking a law book or two from a public library. 

“Just hang in there,” Brock said, earning him a queer look from Sharon. It was his usual way of speaking with clients. “I’m going to hang up now Jack. Is that okay?” 

Jack sucked in a breath on the opposite line. “Yeah, yeah okay. I know you’re busy I just… I just don’t know what to do.” 

“I’ll walk you through it all later.” 

“Okay. Thank you Brock.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

He hung up and sighed heavily. Sharon had hung around, readjusting the box on the desk as she waited for her chance to get the dirty details on what had made Brock break his professionalism. “Who was that?” 

“A friend.” Jack was a friend right? “He needed some legal advice.” 

“Free legal advice from Brock Rumlow? Sounds like more than a friend.” 

Brock rolled in his eyes. “I can give out free advice if I want to.” 

“Brock Rumlow working pro-bono. Mmm, no. I’m not buying it.” She stood up, thin arms crossed over her chest. 

“I’m not working the case,” Brock justified. “I just said I’d connect him with a lawyer would could help him.” 

“And who’s that?” 

“Stark.” 

Her dark eyes widened and she dropped her voice to a hushed tone. “Are you crazy? If Alexander finds out…” 

“He won’t,” Brock said shortly. “Besides, we don’t practice in Maine. He can’t fault me for finding a lawyer who does.” 

“He’ll still try.” 

“I guess that’s a risk I’m willing to take.” 

Sharon accepted with a little ‘hmph’ because it wasn’t just Brock’s standing in the firm being threatened. An assistant was only as good as her employer after all. “I promise it’ll be fine,” he assured her, pulling out a Rolodex to thumb through to old colleagues. “Don’t worry.” 

“I trust you,” Sharon said. “Tread carefully.” 

“I will.” 

When she left he tracked down Stark’s private office line and called from his cellphone. It rang once and twice. There was a chance he was in court. “Oh you’re alive. Too bad.” 

A smile pulled at Brock’s lips at Tony’s greeting. “I thought you might be in court.” 

“We’re on a recess while the prosecutor tries to come up with something to hang my client up on trumped up domestic assault charges. I’ve got a minute. What has you coming crawling to your better?” 

Brock sucked on his cheek in annoyance. “You can still practice in Maine right?” 

“Ugh,” Tony said. “Yes. Why?” 

“I need you to help someone out.” 

“I’m a very busy man.” 

“You owe me from Duchasette vs Wilmington.” Brock reminded him.

Tony didn’t have a remark for that immediately. “You’re really gonna waste that on something in Maine?” 

“A woman burnt herself and wants to take the business owner to court over it.” 

“It’ll be a small claims court case. Do you know how long it’s been since I -- ”

“I don’t care. I want you to take it on. Pro-bono.” 

“Oh you’re hilarious, Rumlow.” 

“I’m not kidding. You owe me.” 

Tony huffed on the other end of the phone. “Fine, fine. You’re cashing in for this? You’re insane.” 

“And I need you to keep it under the table that I’m the one who sent you on the case.” 

“Can’t get daddy Pierce mad at his golden boy?” 

“Soon to be a golden partner,” Brock snarked. 

“About time,” Tony said. “Alright, give me the contact’s information.” 

Brock rattled off his name and number before he remembered to add, “He has aphasia. A woman might speak for him sometimes.” 

“Got it. Oh, and sorry about your father. I meant to send flowers.” 

“I don’t need any more flowers, Stark. And thank you.” 

“You should be thanking me for wasting my precious time on such a petty case.” 

“It’s not petty for Jack.” 

“This is starting to sound a little personal.” 

Brock’s cheeks colored a bit. “It might be. Just… Work your magic.” 

“I always do. Bye.” 

Brock hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair. His chest ached for Jack in a way he’d forgotten about. Just imagining how anxious he would be. He checked the time and got to his feet, looking regretfully at his lunch as he shrugged into his suit jacket. He had court in forty minutes. Hopefully Jack would tear himself up during the proceedings. The second he was out he’d call but right now his time belonged to his client and he couldn’t be distracted. So he filed it into the pack of his mind and started out, dropping the sashimi on Sharon’s desk to either be eaten or tossed. She was on the phone thankfully and she didn’t get a chance to question him on the outcomes. He got into the back of his Uber and closed his eyes to focus himself. 

He’d talk to Jack after court.


	11. Chapter 10

“He’s a great lawyer Jack.” Brock assured the man for the fifth time. 

“If she wins,” Jack started stressfully for what felt like the hundredth time. 

Brock understood that the idea of going to court was scary for common people; it wasn’t their everyday like it was for Brock. He tried to stay positive, reassure him through the worst of it.

“Remember -- there’s a chance she won’t actually sue you, Jack.” 

“Why would she say that then?” 

“Because she’s a bitch. People say things all the time to just bother others. But, should she try, you’ll have one of the best lawyers in your court.” 

Jack drew in a shaking breath. “Do you trust me?” Brock asked softly.

“Of course,” Jack said immediately. “It just… It’s my everything Brock. It’s not just a trail it’s my entire life.” 

“I know that. I trust him to get you through the proceedings.” 

Jack took in yet another deep breath. “It’ll be okay,” he said to himself. “Right?” 

“Right. I’ll check in with both of you through it okay?”

After a moment Jack said, “Thank you for this, Brock. After how we left things… Thank you for still helping me.” 

The way he said it made it sound like a break up and that hurt Brock more than expected. “You’re welcome,” he said hollowly before lying, “I have a conference call I have to attend. Are you alright for now?” 

“Yeah. Thank you.” 

The call ended and Brock set the cellphone in front of him on top of the docket sheets. A weight settled on his chest, heavy and unmoving. He wished he had known what to say to make himself feel better. Once more Jack Rollins had barreled into his world and sent him flying off into space. He tried to ground himself by working but he couldn’t focus. For the first time ever Brock left early and returned to his apartment where he stood on the balcony and drank glasses of red wine to try and fill the void that Jack had punched through him with those words. If only he hadn’t said it, if only he’d left their past out of it things could have stayed friendly, stayed professional, but here he was suffering through a heartache time had only just healed. 

He texted Natasha because he knew if he messaged Clint Jack would find out. 

‘You’ll never guess what happened today.’

‘If you’re talking about the cunt of a woman then I have a good idea.’

‘He called me for legal counsel.’

‘And you said?’

‘I can’t practice in Maine, I’m not licensed. But I have an acquaintance who does.’ 

‘It’s nice of you to help him.’

‘What was I supposed to say? No?’ 

‘It was an option for you. But you didn’t. Interesting.’ 

Brock sighed and went inside to get a refill. Natasha never failed to hint at them getting back together and seeing where the kiss could have led. Brock fought it tooth and nail because Jack had made it clear that it wouldn’t have worked out between them. His world didn’t include Brock and that was fine; it was, really. 

Expect it really wasn’t. He wanted things to go back to how they were. Jack and him not speaking -- there was no heartache associated with that. How was he supposed to maintain a facade that he was as okay as Jack was with the outcome of their risky night together when he felt ready to break down. Brock had never had a real steady relationship but he was starting to understand how those who had their hearts shattered felt. And Jack had no idea. That hurt even worse. 

He poured another glass of wine and then just stared down at it thinking about the dinner he and Jack shared. It had felt hopeful, as though there were endless possibilities laid before him. They weren’t real possibilities of course, if they were he wouldn’t be standing where he was. He would be holding a glass of shiraz cradled to his chest because it was all he had. Suddenly Brock was a teenager, all starry-eyed and enamored; daydreaming beat reality because in his head Jack would have asked him to stay, would kiss him again and again and say those three words that Brock craved. Of coure Jack had said it before but it was said as friends, nothing more. Brock wanted more. He wanted everything when it came to Jack but he’d been denied everything and all he could do now was grieve for the loss of Jack forever. A friendship that had come to a burning end and now Brock was left with nothing. 

It would have been better if he’d just left. The imaginary Jack who would take him into his arms would have been enough; it would have been better than this haunting emptiness where Jack had once lived in his heart. He closed his eyes and brought the rim of his glass to his lips. At least he was helping him. That bit of contact would have to be enough because it was all he was going to get. 

** ** ** **

“Rumlow,” Brock said, lifting the desk phone from the cradle. 

“He has been officially served.” 

Brock set down his pen, stomach sinking. He had hoped the woman would have forgotten about it or at least deemed it not worth the work but clearly he had underestimated how bad the burn was. He was too worried about it to chastise Tony calling his office rather than his cellphone. 

“What’s the complaint?” 

“She wants medical bills and pain and sufferings. She’s claiming third degree burns to her arms with nerve damage.” 

“Fuck.” 

“Fuck indeed. When you said small claims I thought it would be much smaller.” he said, annoyed. 

“You said small claims actually. I’m cashing in a favor.” 

“I know you are. I’m not saying I won’t do it. I’m just saying that this is going to be a pain in the ass for me.” 

“How’s Jack taking it?” 

“Well the guy is a mess, as expected. Small business owners are always so angsty.” 

“It’s their livelihood.” 

“Doesn’t make them less annoying. I’m going to start forwarding his calls to you. I don’t have time to reassure someone that I’m working on it every other day. Although usually I’m talking to Wanda -- very sweet girl by the way, sounds like she’d be a pretty little thing.” 

“Tony.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Anyway, call the guy. Placate him so I can get work done.” 

Brock call Jack? That sent a stab of fear through him. “Uh, okay.” 

“Thanks. I’ll call when I get updates.” 

“Thank you.” 

He hung up in time for Sharon to knock and enter with his Pure Green. “Awfully brave of him to call the office directly,” she said, dark eyes narrowed in accusation. 

“I told him,” Brock lied and held his hand for the cold bottle. “Did you get a copy of the Wilmington contract?” 

“I’m still waiting for it to be faxed.” 

“Give them a call and light a fire under his ass or tell him I’m going to get a witness summons for it.” 

“Ooh, I like it when you get demanding.” she said with an eyebrow wag. Brock smiled. “On it. Also let me know what you’re thinking for lunch.” 

“I will.” 

She left and Brock leaned back in his chair, shuffling the motions he was working on to the side. He stared up at the crown molding. His office was always orderly -- his caseload was too demanding to allow any disarray. One wall was made up of a giant pane of glass. The other walls held paintings of the city line and his framed diplomas. There was a Mel award sitting on a shelf above his desk. Everything had a place. Brock wished he had a place with Jack. 

He toyed with his phone before he lifted it to scan his face. It opened up to the generic background. Brock wondered what it would be like to have a photo of him and Jack. There were ones from their childhood in his storage unit. Maybe he should dig them out. No, that was a terrible idea. He was supposed to be getting over this heartbreak and that was no way to go about it. He cracked open the bottle and tried to let the green drink comfort him. Unsurprisingly it didn’t work. Everything was getting more and more complicated and Brock was suffering the effects of it. Eventually he plucked up enough courage to place the call. By some small miracle it went to the voicemail and Brock was able to rest easy knowing that he had tried. The call wasn’t returned until after Brock had polished off his smoked salmon potato cakes. Brock didn’t pick up immediately, he looked at the ringing screen before he swiped accept and brought it to his ear. He didn’t say anything, tongue suddenly too swollen to move. 

“Brock?” 

“Hey,” he finally managed. “How’s it going?” 

“Mr. Stark says he has everything under control but he’s so busy, what if he gets distracted and forgets?” 

“I won’t let him,” Brock promised. He could do that; he could assure Jack the way he wished Jack could assure him that everything between them hadn’t died. A friendship would be enough -- Brock would make it enough because there was nothing more to be had, as Jack had said. “It’s going to be okay, Jack. You said you trusted me.” 

“I do. It’s just…” Jack felt silent, words failing him so Brock tried to fill in the gap.

“I know it’s scary but I promise you that Tony has tackled much bigger cases and won.” 

Jack drew in a shaky breath. “Okay,” he said finally before he uttered a defeated laugh. “I’m sorry for annoying you so much with this. I know you aren’t my lawyer, I just… I guess it’s good to talk to someone I already know.”

“You’re not annoying me,” Brock said immediately. “These things take time. There’s no quick resolution unless you’re looking to settle which I highly advise against.” 

“Thank you Brock,” Jack said quietly. “Without you Sweet On You wouldn’t stand a chance. I can’t believe a big time lawyer like Mr. Stark wouldn’t charge. Although I have a feeling you had something to do with it. I really hope you aren’t paying him out of your own pocket.” 

“No, he owed me a favor.” 

“Some favor,” Jack said with no small amount of awe. “I can’t even imagine how much he would cost.” 

“Too much,” Brock said shortly. Lawyers were good for that; an inflated ego led to inflated hourly costs. 

He wondered what Jack looked like. Was he huddled around the phone in his living room, or maybe tucked in the corner by the dishwasher at the bakery? He couldn’t hear the hum of it running so maybe he was by the convection ovens. Brock wondered what he was wearing. When they were kids he’d wear baggy clothing when he was unhappy. This unpleasantness was undoubtedly making him unhappy; it would make anyone unhappy. Brock wished all this unpleasantness hadn’t happened to him. If there was ever a man who didn’t deserve to be sued it was Jack. Especially coming from a quaint friendly town of Swallows Peak. Reality was fucking brutal. 

The call concluded shortly afterwards, polite niceties hanging them on the phone for an extra five minutes. Brock was assured everyone was doing well and missing Steve and Bucky. After they hung up Brock checked the time and gathered a few dockets to bring home. At home however he got very little done, too distracted by the conversation. He wondered if he’d ever break free of the hold Jack had on him. 

From there he got periodic updates from both Jack and Tony. Tony said the case was only slightly trickier than he thought but he assured Brock that the case would be dismissed. He had tried to convince Jack to countersue but Jack didn’t want to be dishonest about the counsel being free. Jack was just the kind of man. On November 27th the case was dismissed and he got a call from Jack where he was so happy he had trouble speaking. Wanda intervened and translated his joy. Of course Brock was happy, the case had dragged out for months, but he knew that now Jack had no reason to call him and things could return to how they were: the two of them studiously ignoring each other. 

And come early December no words were exchanged between them. A full year and Brock was finally starting to recover. He was back to throwing himself into his work, counter suing a sexual harassment suit in equity. Did Brock think he was guilty? Yes. But his job wasn’t to think. It was easy to translate friendly texting to be flirting and his client walked out, washing his hands of it the judge found in favor of the defendant. It made Brock feel a bit dirty; but he didn’t pick his clients. He couldn’t turn away business, not if he wanted to make partner. He told himself once he was partner he wouldn’t have to watch guilty men walk on technicalities. As he watched the woman drop her face in his hands he needed a strong drink to distract himself from the guilt. At the office he was greeted with congratulations. It wasn’t the biggest case in the firm but it had gotten news coverage. Tonight he would see himself telling the public that justice was served and reinforce how the system failed victims. Brock couldn’t be too high and mighty about it. He was the reason they walked, shaking off allegations. He enjoyed the praise and that just doubled down his guilt. He wondered if Natasha would see it and what she’d think. What Jack would think when he found out. 

He was starting to feel better as December progressed. Holiday festivities started up and the Saturday before Christmas Brock was at the firm Christmas party. The bar was open and Alexander was accompanied by a beautiful woman with long flowing dark hair. He was admiring a blonde from across the room when his phone buzzed. He looked down at it. 

It was from Natasha. 

‘We’re having a party on Christmas Eve. Will you come? You can crash in our guest room.’

Eight hours was a long way to drive for a single day. But… That small part of him that was holding out on Jack harboring secret desires for him. He put the phone away to think on it. Then he ordered a Black Russian. His interest in the blond who was also sneaking looks at him while talking with Sitwell depleted and he grabbed the holiday basket, tucking his bonus in his pocket. He made his rounds wishing everyone a Merry Christmas before he left. During the ride back to his apartment he turned the invitation over in his mind. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to go back to Swallows Peak for a party. It wouldn’t hurt to see his friends. But it would hurt to see Jack and that was his biggest hang up. That and the drive. At home he unpacked the basket: smoked salmon candy, a gift card to Delmonicos, two bottles of wine, one a 1997 merlot and the other a 2000 pinot gris, and a box of Godiva collections. 

His phone pinged and Brock pulled out his phone. It was, unsurprisingly, from Natasha. 

‘You know I can see when you read my messages right?’ 

Brock huffed but it was more a laugh. ‘I was at a company party.’

‘Sounds stuffy and boring. Our party will be better.’

Brock snorted but then frowned as he remembered what going would entail. He tapped the phone against his palm a few times before he, with great trepidation, said, ‘I can come.’

‘Good. Jack will be happy.’

Brock choked at that. He didn’t think the man would be pleased at all. At most he’d tolerate his presence. They hadn’t talked for months once more. After the suit nonsense they had gone their separate ways once more. But he could complain to Natasha. She wouldn’t out his feelings the same way the others would. 

‘I doubt that.’ 

‘He asks about you all the time. He thinks you’re upset with him because you never talk to him.’

Brock’s jaw set in stubbornness. ‘He never talks to me.’

‘Do you honestly think Jack would be the one to make a first move?’

Brock sighed. ‘We tried that already in case you forgot. He straight out told me it wouldn’t work.’

‘Because he doesn’t want to take you away from your work.’ 

Brock wondered if that was true. Jack had a point of course; what would Brock do for work? It wasn’t like Swallows Peak needed an attorney. But Bangor probably could. 

Brock took a deep breath and admitted, ‘I’d give up work for him.’ 

Natashas’s answer was prompt. ‘Tell him that.’ 

Brock was terrified. The heartache from last time had taken almost a year to recover from, made worse by their professional interactions. Was it worth another year of pain? Brock wasn’t certain it was.


	12. Chapter 11

“You’re going back?” Sharon said, crinkling up her nose. “I thought you hated it there.” 

“I have friends there. It’s good to visit once and awhile.” Brock set aside his chopsticks. 

“I couldn’t even imagine what that would be like. What is there to even do?” 

“Nothing. But that’s kind of nice in a way.” Sharon looked at him like he’d grown two heads. “And I’m bringing some work to do in case I do get bored.” 

“Hey it’s your time,” she shrugged her thin shoulders and gathered up the trash to bring out of the office. “Do you need the rest of the day?” 

Brock looked up in surprise. “Do you have plans?” 

“Maybe. You’ve been leaving early lately so I might have booked an appointment with my stylist. I’m thinking auburn.” 

Brock assessed her a moment trying to picture her blond hair colored. “I would suite you.” 

“Thank you,” Sharon looked pleased at the validation. 

“You can go. I’ll be fine.” 

She perked up and thanked him before leaving the office and departing to her appointment. Brock was set to leave early tomorrow to make it to the evening party. It was a ridiculous drive to make for something so small but he had already said he was going. Steve would be there but Bucky was still deployed. It would be a nice little gathering. One he was determined not overthink and torture himself over. He’d see Jack and that was fine. He could be friendly. He didn’t have to try and bridge the gap if he didn’t want to. It was up to him. But he’d thought the same thing last year and it had led to the longest year of his life. 

The ride up he battled himself on what he’d do. Did he trust himself to follow his impulses when he was faced with Jack or did he need to keep himself well contained? What did he really have to lose that he hadn’t lost once before? Natasha may have misread the signs, misunderstood Jack and the information she had given he could be wrong. Maybe Jack really wasn’t interested and Brock was making a complete fool of himself. What they had once shared had aged past its prime and now it was just rotten shelled left over emotions that were far out of date. The radio seemed to only play songs about love and that was just salt in the wound. 

When he finally passed the sign welcoming him to Swallows Peak he had come to the firm decision that he would talk to Jack privately and get out what he wanted to say. Then he’d let the dice fall where they may. At least then he’d know he’d given it his all. 

** ** ** **

The front of Clint and Natasha’s house boasted a blow up santa with a sleigh and reindeer. The house was decked with lights, bright and jolly especially in the fading light. Brock had spent too much shopping for them, unsure on what to buy someone who was happy with nothing. When he was a kid offering a fifteen dollar gift card to the store was lucrative and wild. So he had done his best. He might have splurged a bit too much on Jack but when he saw the 10 speed planetary mixer online he couldn’t say no. It would take a few trips to get the gifts in but Brock wasn’t as worried about that as he was about seeing Jack. He didn’t want to be rendered speechless like he had before. When his heart was breaking and he couldn’t say a damn thing to assure Jack that he was more important than a job. 

The door swung open and Clint grinned at him. He was wearing an obscenely ugly christmas sweater and Lucky ran between legs to meet Brock. His hands were too full to pat him but Clint took half the load in his arms so he could pet and quiet the dog. 

“You didn’t have to bring gifts.” Brock hadn’t even noticed Natasha exiting the house but there she was in a sweater just as ugly as Clint’s. “And I see you forgot about our ugly sweater dress code.” 

Now she said it, he felt like an idiot forgetting it. Brock and Jack would spend hours constructing horrible articles of clothing in preparation for their yearly little get together. “I forgot,” he admitted. 

“Clearly. I hope some of this is for me.” 

Brock grinned. “It is.” 

“Good.” She took the remainder of the load. “C’mon inside. I’ll get you a cup of coffee.” 

“I have more to get out of the car.” 

“Jesus,” Clint huffed. “I’ll help you. I just gotta put this under the tree.” 

Brock assured him he could get the rest himself -- and he did -- and soon they were inside their house. It was small and cozy. They hadn’t let the size of the living room affect them, the tree swallowing every inch of available inch in the room. It was decked out with decorations, lights, garland and even strung popcorn. Brock remembered stringing popcorn when he was younger on the porch of Jack’s house with mugs of steaming cocoa. Brock blinked out of his memories and added the gifts to the growing pile under the tree. Jack hadn’t arrived yet and that gave Brock a bit of time to get his bearings. 

“Man you’re pretty good at wrapping,” Clint said looking down at it. “It’s like what you’d see on TV.” 

“I didn’t wrap them. The stores wrap them for you.” 

“Aw, man, I wish we had that here.” 

Natasha entered the living room with the cup of promised coffee and while it wasn’t Starbucks it was palatable unlike the sludge Clint insisted on for the diner. “What do you wish we had here?”

“Stores that wrap gifts for you.” 

“I like wrapping gifts.” Natasha sat down and crossed her legs. “Adds a personal touch -- no offense.” 

“None taken. I didn’t have much time.” 

“I saw your big case on TV.” Natashsa said, her eyes chillingly blank. 

“I don’t want to talk about that.” 

“Okay.” She said, pulling out her phone. “I’ll see what’s holding up our guests.” 

Brock’s discomfort at the topic didn’t fade the way he had wanted it to. It wasn’t like he was proud of what he’d done, proud that his argument had spun a skewed story. But it was what it was and it wasn’t fair for her to fault him for doing his job. He sipped his coffee and tried to shake it off. It was hard without something alcoholic to numb it but he gave it his best. 

“They’re almost here,” she announced. “Clint, get a sweater for Brock.” 

“Yes ma’am. C’mon Rumlow.” 

Brock followed him up narrow steps to the second floor. Their bedroom had mismatching furniture but was clean and neat. Clint rummaged in the closet in a moment before he withdrew with a horrendous green sweater with red and white pom poms. “Oh God.” 

“It’s awful right?” Clint grinned at it. “Here you go.” 

“There’s going to be alcohol right?” 

“Oh definitely.” 

Brock traded his Loro Piana for the offensive sweater and couldn’t bear to look at himself in the mirror as he turned to leave the room. The kitchen table was piled full of snacks and a bowl for eggnog spiked with dark rum and cognac. Brock helped himself to a cup before returning to the living room where he caught sight of a stockings he’d failed to notice. There was one for each of them, lumpy with gifts. Another thing he had forgotten was tradition for them. Brock quickly grabbed his wallet to slip some cash in. 

“Don’t you dare.” 

Brock froze and looked at Natasha who had fixed her green gaze on him. “I didn’t get any stocking stuffers for you guys.” 

“I forgot. I don’t want to the be the only one who -- ”

“We don’t accept money as gifts, Rumlow.” 

That deal had been made when they were too young to have any steady access to money but clearly Natashsa was a stickler for tradition. He pulled the fifty out of Clint’s stocking feeling like a dog who’d been scolded. Tucking it away with scowl he sat down in the chair opposite Natasha. She didn’t say a word but the look in her eyes was such clear disappointment that he could only bear a minute before saying, “It wasn’t my ideal case.” 

“But you took it.” 

“He has our firm on retainers. I just happened to be given it.” Brock scrubbed a hand over his face. “It’s not like I can refuse a case because I don’t like the nature of the crime.” 

“He was guilty.” 

“He was deemed not guilty.” 

“Wrongfully.” 

“That’s the choice the jury made, Natasha.” 

“But you’re the one who convinced them he wasn’t a predator. Who says he won’t go after another woman?”

“My job is to prove my clients are innocent. If I don’t, I lose my license.” 

“Is your license to practice more important than the safety of those put in jeopardy because of the people who have walked?” 

“Do we have to talk about it now?” Brock asked moodily. He was already stressed out about Jack and now Natasha was trying to guilt trip him into admitting that yes, it did bother him. “It’s Christmas.” 

“It’s Christmas Eve,” Natasha corrected. “Just answer me one more question.” 

“Fine.” 

“Does it make you happy?” 

“What?” 

“Does it make you happy when you win and your client gets to walk away without punishment.” 

“Natasha it’s not -- ”

“Does it make you happy?” she asked again, firmly. “It’s a yes or no.” 

“No.” Brock finally said. “No it doesn’t.” 

“So why do you do it?” 

Brock didn’t have an answer for that and he was saved by Lucky running to the door barking to alert them that Steve and Jack had arrived. He already felt ragged by the conversation with Natashsa and he found himself doubting if he was able to address things with Jack at all. He felt unwound as it was. Clint opened the door and Steve and Jack entered, cheeks reddened by the cold. 

“Hi,” Steve greeted. His arms were full of parcels. “Merry Christmas.” 

“Merry Christmas,” Brock said, moving to help. 

Jack came trooping behind him, stamping snow from his boots outside before stepping in. He looked too good in a black jacket and a gray woolen hat hiding his black hair from sight. Brock’s mouth went dry at the thought of having to pull him aside, holding out his heart to be trampled. Jack’s eyes found him and he smiled. It was a bit startling but Jack came across the room pulling him into a tight hug. 

“Thank you so, so much Brock.” he pulled back, hand still holding his arms. The happiness shining in his eyes soothed any past upsets and Brock smiled back. Probably a bit dopily but Jack didn’t seem to mind. “I don’t know how to thank you.” 

“You don’t need to.” Brock assured him. “I’m just glad everything worked out as it should have.” 

“Man, Mr. Stark is really good at what he does. The lady’s lawyer could hardly keep up with him.” 

Brock smiled. “That sounds like Tony. I’m glad he delivered because if he hadn’t I would have to stand trial for murder.” 

Jack laughed clearly unaware of how serious Brock was. He didn’t want any harm to befall the man before him. “I’m glad you came,” Jack said, voice dropping a bit. “It’s been a little while since we spoke.” 

“Yeah…” Brock wasn’t sure what to say to that? ‘The phone works both ways’ or maybe ‘Don’t you prefer that?’. “Sorry about that.” 

“Eggnog?” Natasha cut in and Brock could have kissed her he was so thankful. 

“Can’t say no to that. I’ll be back to catch up with you.” 

“Okay.” 

Natasha led Jack and Steve out of the room and Brock could finally breathe. “So when are you going to tell him that you’re in love with him?” Clint asked. 

Brock’s eyes went wide as dinner plates. “Shh,” he hissed. “He could hear you.” 

“Ah so you don’t deny it.” Clint said triumphantly. “I knew Natasha was keeping a secret.” 

Oh great. Now Clint knew it wouldn’t take long for news to find its way to Jack and Brock wanted to jump ahead of that. So his plan to take Jack aside still stood. Clint wagged his eyebrows at him and Brock held up his middle finger. The man just laughed and shifted towards the gifts. “So what did you get me?” 

“That defeats the purpose of it being a present. You’ll find out when you open it.” 

“That’s no fun.” 

“Sorry.” 

“And if you tell Jack I will burn your gifts in front of you.” 

Clint looked at him, affronted. “You wouldn’t dare.” 

“Want to try me?” 

Clint, despite being a fully grown man, pouted. “You’re no fun.” 

“That’s me. Brock ‘No Fun’ Rumlow.” 

“I’d believe it.” 

“I'm sure you would.” 

They could hear the footsteps approaching and Clint sent a wicked grin his way before sitting on the couch near the tree. Jack had eggnog but Steve did not. He wasn’t much of a drinker, even when they were young and sipping on beers stolen from Clint’s dad. Brock never dared to steal his father’s -- he’d notice and Brock would be in for a world of hurt. Steve had most likely dubbed himself the designated driver. Everyone got settled on the couch and caught up. Jack said the bakery was doing well -- and thanked Brock yet again. Natasha said that they were thinking about repainting the diner. Clint had bought a sweater for Lucky but it didn’t fit. Steve was working on a new painting and had just sold three of them at the county craft fair. Brock congratulated him and then attention shifted to him. Brock thought about his cases, about the sexual harrassment suit and then about a domestic assault case where his client was accused of holding a gun on her husband. All he-said-she-said but Brock had gotten a good indication of who was lying. They had both should have been found guilty but, thanks to Brock, they still walked among potential victims. 

“Busy,” he finally said. He avoided Natasha’s eyes but it didn’t save him. 

“We saw you on TV.” Steve said. 

“Oh, yeah.” 

“I want to be on TV,” Clint announced, knowingly saving him. “Maybe I’ll go on one of those cooking competitions. Like Chopped. Do you think I could win at Chopped? Imagine what we could do with ten thousand dollars.” 

Brock remembered a time when that seemed like a lot of money. “A lot,” Natashsa said, playing along. 

“Was he really not guilty?” Steve asked with a frown. “I just…” 

“I can’t really discuss my clients,” Brock cut in. “The jury found it in his favor.” 

Steve didn’t seem soothed by it. He looked just as troubled as he had in the beginning. Brock felt like the bad guy. Like the image of a crooked attorney that everyone harbored. The lying weasel interested in money without a moral compass. Brock hadn’t wanted to be that kind but he’d turned into the stereotype. And for what? To make partner so he could continue to do the same thing. Guilty people paid the most and to keep a firm afloat you needed clients willing to shell out large sums. There wouldn't be an escape from news coverage, to be the one who dismissed all claims as a money grab. And more guilty people would see him on the news and know that his counsel would result in the court finding in their favor. It was a vicious cycle. 

But he’d devoted his life to it. He was wildly successful considering his age and now he was second guessing himself. It wasn’t just Jack, it was a question of morality that he’d avoided all these years. No one had made him confront it; his friends were all lawyers doing the same exact thing. It was a wake up. He was finally realizing that what was doing wasn’t good; that he wasn’t proud of his work the way he wanted to be. There was never that good feeling of satisfaction after he won, just the need to numb the regret that crept up his spine like a cold hand. 

“He seemed guilty to me,” Steve finally said. 

Brock wanted to agree but he couldn’t so offered a stiff smile in his direction. For a moment there was tension in the air. Everyone knew that Brock’s client had been guilty and that Brock had found him innocent and the poor woman would never see justice the way she should. But there wasn’t anything Brock could do about that now. Clint broke the silence in a very Clint way asking if it was time for stockings. 

“I don’t see why not,” Natasha agreed. 

She stood to hand them out, stubbornly refusing any help. Inside was cheap candy, candy canes and mini boxes of chocolates from the Dollar Tree. There was a chocolate Santa and a ‘lump of coal’ which was made of rice and a chocolate. A handful of Hershey Kisses were strewn among it all. Little knick knacks rested at the bottom, a glass reindeer and a snowflake ornament that Natasha had personalized with their name. It was small but it meant so much more than the Christmas basket he’d received at work. These had been hand selected. 

“I know it’s nothing fancy like you’re used to,” Natasha began sounding apologetic. 

“I love it.” Brock said firmly. 

He unwrapped the Santa and took a bite. The chocolate was cheap and waxy but he still made an animated ‘yum’. Natasha wasn’t buying it but she smiled and that was a win in Brock’s book. Once everyone was munching on chocolate they turned to the tree and Clint appointed himself Santa, passing out gifts. They went one at a time. They were little things; things that someone without much money would have gotten. Suddenly he wished he’d bought cheaper things. He had still been in his headspace of gifting people of equal income, not those who made modest wages. He appreciated the fountain pen in a nice box he’d gotten from Natasha and Clint, and oaktag for ‘important documents’ from Steve. He thanked them genuinely, already thinking of places he could keep them in his office. They got to his gifts and Brock’s dread returned. 

“Ooh, this is for Lucky,” Clint said. “I’ll open it for him.” 

It was a dog DNA kit with a slip of confirmation for a year of BarkBox subscription. “Oh wow that’s so neat! Nat we can finally see what kind of dog he is. And wow, Lucky’s gonna be one lucky dog with all the toys he’s going to get.” Clint looked at him with a radiant smile. Brock’s nerves were soothed a bit. “Thanks so much Brock.”

“You’re welcome. I thought it might be neat to see what breed he is.” 

Natasha smiled and Brock knew that at least one gift was pleasing. Natasha’s gift came next and Brock was back to chewing the inside of his cheek. She peeled off the paper and frowned at the glossy box from Saks. “This is too much,” she said immediately but she took the top off. 

The white mink shawl was nestled among tissue paper. Now he was looking at it seemed impractical. “If you don’t like it I can return it.” 

“It’s not that I don’t like it… What is it anyway?” 

“It’s mink.” 

Steve glared at him and Brock remembered how anti-fur he was. “It was a bad gift.” 

“It’s the thought that counts,” Natasha lifted it, stroking the fur. “Easy Steve.” 

“The fur industry is awful, Brock.” 

“My assistant told me it was a good idea. I’m sorry.” 

Natasha put it around her shoulders. “I feel like a big city girl now. All I need are those fancy red bottoms.” 

Brock had considered it but asking Clint for her shoe size would have given it away. Plus it would have been impractical. Almost as impracticable as gifting a shawl. Natasha wasn’t a shawl wearing woman. Brock was an idiot. “I’m sorry. All my gifts are… I didn’t mean to buy things that you guys wouldn’t really use, I just…” 

“It’s okay,” Steve said. “I’m sorry I got upset. You’re just doing what you’re used to.” 

At least Steve understood. “You can return it Natasha. Get something you’d actually like from Saks.” 

“I think I’m going to wear this to church tonight.” 

“We’re going to church?” 

“Obviously. We always go, remember?” 

Brock wondered if he could even step foot into a church with all the immoral things he’d helped people get away with. He snuck a glance at Jack who was busy petting Lucky. How was he supposed to carve out that time to talk with Jack if they were going to be in the house of the Lord? Brock wasn’t even remotely religious anymore but he’d failed to remember that Swallows Peak was. Jack's gift was hefted up and Clint strained in an exaggerated manner as he left it to Jack. The weight seemed to startle Jack as well as he looked at the massive box. 

“What’s in this thing? Rocks?”

“You’ll have to open it to find out.” 

Jack smiled, sending Brock’s heart aflutter. He peeled back the paper. He had to turn the box around to see the front of the box. Jack’s jaw slacked, apparently stupefied. “What is it?” Clint asked curiously, getting up to peek. “Ooh, a new mixer.” 

“You didn’t need to get me something like this, Brock,” Jack said immediately. “These things cost hundreds of dollars.” 

“I’m supporting a small business,” Brock argued. “It’s not just for you, it’s for everyone who gets goodies from your store.” 

Jack still looked troubled as he thanked him and Brock’s stomach sunk. He’d tried to be thoughtful with his gifts but everyone was so caught up on the cost it made his efforts moot. Steve had an equal reaction to the Munich Premiere hog bristle paint brush set. The only one who didn’t seem to dislike their gifts was Clint who was HexClad stainless steel set. He got up to hug Brock which helped smooth over his failure of gifts. Clint tore in the box despite Natasha reminding him that they had to get ready for church soon. While he admired the gifts with a chef’s eye and Brock watched Jack trailing his fingers over the box. 

“If you don’t like it, I have the receipt and you can use the money for something you really need for the bakery.” 

“No,” Jack said, startled. “I love it. I just… I guess I wasn’t expecting something like. I guess you guys do it big in the city, huh?” 

“Something like that.” Brock rubbed the back of his neck and took his shot. “Can I talk with you in the other room?” 

“Of course,” Jack set the box down on the floor and got to his feet. He stepped over a ball of wrapping paper. 

Brock stood up, not missing the way Natasha’s eyes tracked them. They went into the kitchen where Brock picked up a tortilla chip to keep himself occupied as he tried to muster up the courage to do what he’d come here to do. 

“I don’t like my job.” Brock said. 

Jack blinked. “I’m sorry to hear that.” 

“I know… I know you said we wouldn’t work but...but if it’s my job that’s holding you up, don’t let it. I would rather have you than some job.” Jack’s surprise had him paralyzed but now he started talking he couldn’t stop. “I keep thinking about that kiss. About what we could have been if I hadn’t left and I… I love you Jack. I have for a very long time. If you don’t want me it’s okay. I’ll get over it. But if you feel the same way then…” 

“Brock you’ve put your entire life into your work.” Jack said softly. “You can’t just up and abandon that for someone like-like…” he trailed off. 

“You,” Brock supplied. “Who says I can’t? It should be my choice. All the time I’ve put in has led to guilty people walking free. Only guilty people seek my counsel and I’m tired of it. I’m tired of the city, tired of everything being about money and power.” 

Jack’s mouth opened but he couldn’t seem to speak, eyes narrowing in frustration. Brock couldn’t help him out, not when he didn’t know what Jack would want to say.

“Eggnog!” Brock heard Clint announce and Brock quickly made space between them. 

Clint breezed past them, refilling his glass. He faced Brock with a grin. “I can’t wait to crack out those bad boys on Saturday. Thanks again, man. Hey, what are you guys doing anyway? Romantic things? I should have hung up mistletoe here.” 

Jack’s face flushed beet red and Brock’s own face warmed. Natasha appeared, grabbing her husband’s arm and hauling him away despite his sputtered protests of helping. “I’ve loved you since we were kids. But you left.” Jack said. “How do I know you won’t leave again?” 

That hurt. He wasn’t wrong. Brock had up and left them all. Was it fair to come sweeping in and confess his love? “You’ll just have to trust me, I guess.” 

“If you leave your job what will you do?” 

“Maybe I’ll open my own firm. Maybe I’ll stop practicing and look for a new profession.” Brock shrugged. 

“I can’t ask you to up and leave your entire life.” 

“You’re not asking, I’m offering.” 

“But what if -- ”

“We’ll deal with what ifs when they happen. If you want me, I’m here. I’m offering myself up to you.” Brock was vulnerable right. More vulnerable than he’d ever been in his entire life. Jack held his heart in his hands right now and it was fragile; Jack could shatter it easily -- could shatter him easily. “I’m here if you want me. And if you don’t, that’s okay too.” 

“I need time to think.” 

Brock's heart broke a bit. He wasn’t sure why he expected Jack to say yes immediately and sweep him into a passionate kiss. This was real life, not a movie. Things weren’t as simple as confessing your love and living happily ever after. “Okay.” 

“Let’s get back with the group,” Jack nodded towards the living room and Brock swallowed back the urge to verify that he wasn’t upset with him for springing it on him on Christmas Eve ruining what wouldn’t have been a good night if it wasn’t for him. 

Brock was only physically present during the rest of the gift opening. Mentally he was replaying the conversation over and over again, trying to figure out where he stood with Jack. He should have said something that night they kissed. He should have reassured Jack that work wasn’t more important than the happiness they could have built together. But he had missed that opportunity and now his heart was on the line. Brock got kinetic-sticks and a business card holder. It was all thoughtful and inexpensive, the way things usually were here. How Brock had forgotten was anyone’s guess. He’d been out of touch with his roots for a long time now. He never thought that would bother him but it did. Jack had changed a lot of things about him. Brock knew there was no way to really express the effect Jack had on him beyond offering to up and leave everything he’d built for him. 

Jack and Steve were wearing nice dress shirts under their ugly sweaters and Brock traded his for his Loro Piana. Natashsa disappeared upstairs only to returning in a beautiful strapless beige dress that went well with the shawl over her shoulders. She would have done well in New York, she would have fit in the crowd at a company party with ease. No one would have thought that she was a waitress. 

“What do you think? I feel like I should be smoking a cigarette and plotting to skin dalmations.” Brock laughed as she did a playful twirl. “We’re definitely taking your car. I can’t wear this in a Ford. A Jaguar is much more fitting.” 

“You can even drive.” 

Natasha’s eyes lit up the way he had thought she would have when she opened the mink. “Really?” 

“Sure. You and Steve are the only one of us who weren’t drinking.” 

“I think we can fit everyone in.” It was an SUV model, all they had left on the lot when he called. “If people don’t mind sitting in the back.” 

“I don’t mind,” Steve said looking at Jack. 

“That’s fine with me.” 

So that was how they ended up fitted into the Jaguar. Brock had claimed the front seat, mostly to avoid being pressed against Jack. He was feeling raw from the ‘time to think’ comment and he didn’t trust himself not to pry at it. Everyone knew about the tension between them -- if you could call it tension. It wasn’t stiff and uncomfortable as tension usually was and more high stakes, the feeling someone got when scratching a lotto ticket and seeing two of the same symbols. There was the possibility of riches or ruins and that’s where Brock was. 

The ride was short and Clint’s chatter stave off any uncomfortable silences. Natasha seemed to like the car, grinning the entire ride. “You’re gonna have to get her one of these,” Brock said, looking back at Clint. 

“Oh man if I could, I would. Get one for myself too. Why haven’t you gotten one?” 

“It’s easier to just Uber or Lyft around. No point in buying a car I’d rarely use.” Brock glanced in the rearview mirror. He could see a sliver of Jack’s face and his attention seemed to be on the lights they were passing. 

“I’d get one just to have it,” Clint announced. 

“I think you’d change your mind once you saw New York traffic.” 

“Still.” 

Brock smiled and tried to quell the panic that was still welling up inside of him. What would he do if Jack decided that no, he wasn’t going to waste his time on Brock because Brock wasn’t the same guy he once knew. Maybe he was thinking about all the cases where the bad guy got off scot-free. Maybe he was thinking of the best way to break it to Brock that he wasn’t interested. That the kiss had been a mistake and he hadn’t meant to lead him on. Brock wasn’t certain how he’d handle that. 

Church felt both fast and unbearably slow. Holding a Bible in his hands felt strange after so many years away from it. He had to read along for the hymns and watch the children re-enact the nativity scene. The entire time was hyper aware of Jack beside him. He had Steve on the other side, boxing him in. Brock lined up behind Jack as they stood in line for Communion. It felt a bit like he was playing a role when he tore off a chunk of bread (“the Body of Christ, broken for you”) and dipped it into the wine (“the Blood of Christ, shed for you”). Once returned to their pews they sang ‘Away in the Manger’ before the service commenced and the priest said that there were cookies and hot chocolate downstairs. Brock hoped they wouldn’t partake -- and they didn’t. 

Brock managed to avoid anyone who might have recognized him, aware that he couldn’t handle that on top of the anxiety he was harboring. Finally they were back in the Jaguar and on their way back to the house. Thankfully he wasn’t left to simmer in his nerves for long because on the walk in, Jack pulled him aside. When the door shut they stood on the porch. It was starting to slow, snowflakes falling soundlessly. 

“I care about you Brock. I care about you so much that I don’t want you to leave everything for someone like me. You’re bigger than this town, Brock. You’re smart and you’re good at what you do.” 

“I don’t want to be good at what I do anymore,” Brock cut in. “This town can make space for me because I know what I want.” 

“And what if you change your mind? I can’t lose you again. You have no idea how badly you hurt me when you vanished.” 

Brock swallowed dryly. “I’m sorry Jack. I’m so sorry.” 

Jack stared over his head before he met his eyes. “If you really want to stay here…” Jack paused, licking his lips nervously. “If you really want to give us a try, I’m okay with it. But what are you going to do for work?” 

Brock was so relieved he could have cried. His vision was blurry as tears swam in his eyes. He threw his arms around Jack who held him back. It was everything he had wanted and he broke down in a way he never had. He was laughing and crying and telling Jack he loved him. Jack held him tightly, held him the way only a lover could. “I love you too.” 

“I’ll transfer my UBE and start up my own firm. Maybe I’ll focus on traffic or contractual law.” 

“Is that what will make you happy?” Jack asked, still rubbing his back. 

“Just being with you will make me happy. The rest I can figure out.” 

“We.” 

“What?” 

“The rest we can figure out.” 

Brock breathed the scent of his detergent and the soap still clinging to his skin. 

“Yes. We.” 

Brock pulled back to kiss him properly. It was sweet, slow and short but it was everything that Borck had wanted. Regardless of what came next, Brock knew that it would be okay. Now he had Jack true happiness laid in his future and the rest would sort itself out.


End file.
